SpeedPoem: We Are One

Me and a Twitter Friend attempted a speed poem to the the same title - he got round to doing his a lot sooner than I did - but I'm a busy bee. You can check out his version of the poem here

So here is a quick 10 minute stab at poetry:

We Are One

We are. Collectively singular. One and the same.
In the only single category that's part of the game
Aims of understanding
Of knowledge out of grasp
Have us swiping at that nothing that's the same
As our parts.

You and I and
Me and the tree
Are the same. Are one. Framed by being
Seeing only in 2D
Blind to depth, to life, this reality
There's death tied in
Wound in. Breaking everything
That sings to bring
The end
About.

Perceptual Experiences

So today I sat through the exact same Epistemology lecture I sat through last year on Sense Datum Theories. Part of me felt like just leaving when I realised I'd heard it all before, but let's be honest here, doing it again isn't going to hurt. So in accepting being given this second chance to understand I will take to discussing it with you lot. 

Personally I feel like epistemology shouldn't have it's own class but should just be discussed in relation to everything else. But maybe that's just because I am not a fan - 

So I'll give you the two claims we are (apparently) committed to before I discuss. If you are a non philosopher and absolutely horrified by my sharing this with you I do apologise and hope it doesn't lead to you never returning. But at the same time I did warn you all of this probably happening and as I have been sat in the library for a couple of hours and found myself not really doing much of anything I may as well do this. Let's call it Education Through Procrastination. 

In fact, I quite like that. I will be keeping it, somehow. 

1) Typically, the direct objects of perceptual experience are external, mind independent objects

2) Typically, perceptual experiences are relations to their direct objects. 

'Right, so what does that all mean' I hear you ask! Well, I don't hear much other than the clicking and the tapping I'm causing myself nor could I adequately answer such a question (I'm assuming) but by-golly I plan to try (...something). 

Now, according to number 2 those perceptual experiences are relational just like my laptop is sat in front of me is relational. If I were sat somewhere else that whole 'in front of me' placement would not hold. So according to that, a perceptual experience needs to have a relation going on, if there is no one around to relate to then the experience can't be happening. 

Ok, so that makes sense enough. 

'But wait!' I hear you cry. Does it make sense if we think about illusory experiences or hallucinations? 

Well, if you are a Sense-Datum Theorist the answer would be to abandon claim 1 and keep hold of number 2. So there is still the 'relation to the object' thing going on, but it doesn't necessarily have to be some external object. Only thing, if it's not an external object, what the hell is it? If I can see the laptop, doesn't the laptop have to be there? 

Well, the Sense Datum guys would say that those perceptual experiences are mind dependent 'sense-data' that are actually these internal things inside our minds. 

This is the point I start going - wait, what!?

So (from what I've gathered at least,) our perceptual experiences, i.e. things I can see, touch etc. are relations to the 'sense-data'. 

This sounds like they are saying that those perceptual experiences I'm having are all in my head, which I can almost go for... almost. Yeah ok, so I'll agree that what we're perceiving isn't necessarily what's out there. It's not like we could ever know, my experiences are all subjective. So on a low low scale, maybe when I see blue you can see green - that's not to say we're going to sit and argue about the blue object we're both looking it, but rather we see different things that are called the same thing through that relational language stuff. I learn to call this thing I see blue and so do you, even though we don't see the same thing. 

Sure, fine. This is ok. But now we're getting more into the 'what?' 

So how is it that you and I can both see a table if this is all some internal mental sense data relation? There has to be something making me perceive a table, right? 

Well I think so. But then you have those idealists that just make my head hurt who I think say no. Now, maybe I'm just misinterpreting the whole thing, but I think the idealists would say that everything I perceive and experience is just some representation or illusion or something and not what's really there. But then you have to wonder what really is there... 

It almost feels like they either don't have an answer or they're just going to make stuff up and hope it flies. 

I'm not really sure about all this idealism - It makes my head hurt. 

But please, enter into discussion (especially any philosophers!) and let's work all this out together! 

Kind of like a failure, but not really

I didn't get anywhere near my 50 poem mark today, it was a lot harder than I wanted it to be! The first few poems were fine, rolled right out but then I started running out of words. I didn't want to just be posting absolute shit (moderate is still editable =p) so I stopped when I had nothing left to say. Even though I was way out on my target I am still happy with the results. Speed writing isn't something I want to try in such large doses again, but forcing myself to write once in a while seems like a good idea if I'm having issues with productivity. I will go over the poems I wrote today during the week and touch them up a bit and maybe get one of them up on YouTube =]

I had some people suggesting titles at me over the past week which was nice and gave me lots of choices to work with and also means I have loads of left over titles if I feel the need to try any more speed writing! I even got a couple people joining in with me, doing a few speed poems of their own.

I think my favourite of today might be #10. Not Really Into Scaring Crows but I don't know...

#11. The Pink Clock Goes Tick Tock

The pink clock goes tick tock.

Biologically inside of me it calls for every

checkpoint. Joints disappointing artefacts

crumbling in time.

To wine and dine a masterpiece

To teach the ABC

To point to apples and to cars

and hear a tiny voice

repeating words that you have carved.

The pink clock goes tick tock.

The cat in the hat and the mouse in the house

douse rose water on the alter.

Faltering before insisting everything be

as you once saw it

behind your childlike eyes.

You create the same lies:

Of Santa getting stuck in a chimney

after one too many mince pies.

Of the tooth-fairy sneaking into bedrooms

and stealing children's teeth.

Of monsters under the bed

and red faces in the windows.

The pink clock goes tick tock.

Building blocks to podiums that we

never get to mount

as we run in a race that we

never even count. Bouncing glass off walls

in halls of shattered mirrors

getting nearer to that clearer end

hour by hour

minute by minute

the clock is not your friend.

It's pink is like a mask of joy

confusing souls to think their time will never come

running at the speed of light

to miss all our featured fights

we find ourselves on the last stretch

unappreciated; the unsung sketch.

#10. Not Really Into Scaring Crows

Rows of them sat up on that roof top

hopping around before they drop off.

Stopping our day while we all watch

that murder heard itself around us -

surrounding us and closing in.

Yeah it's called a 'murder' when there's

lots of crows,

did you know?

Figured I'd drop some literary references

dangle pretences in wet suspense

and question scaring crows at all.

How do scarecrows even work?

A stick and some hay in a shirt

poking out of the crops

maybe wearing a smirk.

These crows just sit on the wooden cross

lifting some failed hero stolen from the

horses, who'll now go hungry.

They are not afraid.

They're plotting. Something, I've not worked

out yet. Not that anyone would believe me.

"Hey mr, these crows over here 

are plotting to eat you,

rip apart your moustache and give you bird flu" 

The crows are growing. Evolving

into demons. Cascading into bullets

threatening the farmers wife.  

She's on the menu tonight

along with the dog, who's been taken for starters.

It's a scary place out on these pastures

it's no wonder he ran away.

When the girl with the sparkles

let the scarecrow down off his crucifix

he was shitting bricks.

Ran along the Old Road until he ran out

of all the yellow.

Mellowed out catching his breath

Left us here to watch them peck.

I guess I almost warned you

before they flew down and consumed you.

And I promise I didn't enjoy watching

them prize open the boy

or them deploying the second wave

wiping everything left out.

Not sure how they missed me

they seemed to resist me.

Bet your pissed I didn't try to scare the crows,

all those rows of them -

#9. Let's Get Back To The Spinning

Everything's always spinning; stopping is
for the end
pending an apocalypse or hieroglyphics
forced to bend out of the stone
and bone of ancient times
rewinding and fast forwarding
boarding chorus' of broken wings
it spins.

Missing the days the room moves
up and down
and round in circles
dolls speaking through skinless skulls
pointing to stars that never spun
running so far behind the speed of light
the dolls have us staring at a nothing
passing round a mirror
taking turns to move your world.
Purple sparks
burn through carpets
lighting buildings spinning mountains
under fountains planted by the dolls
you're not watching
'cause everything's always spinning.

#8. I'll Bribe Him With The Antidote

Sneak a peak behind the curtain
certain actions play routine.
I learnt his daily system
condemned him to his punishment
cementing his resentment in that
shallow whiskey on his desk.
As his heart starts to panic
he clenches at his chest
obsessed with this request on repeat
to stop the heat
to stop the pain
begging to let him walk away.
To see his pain makes things ok.
And in the fading minutes
as he cries and falls
I take it all and break his heart

#7. Slay Me A Werewolf In The Kitchen

It's like an invasion

on every occasion that the lunar

cycle takes a pause

and causes hoards of things with paws

and scary jaws that smile cold

to just pop up. Unfolding terrors

on my house

playing poker, joking about sucking 

my spouse. Lifeless

chewed through the flesh.

They make a mess and tear down walls

and smash my mugs

with angry calls of their own frustration

with the fur. Blurred entrepreneurs

running through woods

and knocking down doors

with floors of broken shards

just bleeding on my kitchen floor.

This is my call to arms 

for any slayers

ones who specialise in kitchen invaders

and have silver stakes. 

#5. Voices In The Background

Sometimes they're real quiet

So you're left straining to hear them

Stemming from the back

Somewhere in the distance

Starting out by whispering answers

And helping you through tests

Contesting any ignorance

Prancing through protests with dance.

Advancing to your consciousness

Pulling on your ears

Screaming

Until they start to drown out the foreground

Mounds of needs they need filling

Billing your being with a filling so dense

It just weighs you down.

Frowns get more frequent

Denting violent accents to your spine

Leaving twitching imprints

Hinted at from squinting flints found

Somewhere in youth.

In some undetected prodrome

Roaming all the corners

Your brain kept you out of.

Friends morphing into enemies

Banging violent energy confusing hopeless

Silhouettes getting lost in the shadows

Of white empty rooms

Assuming certain fumes will one day

Show their tombs

#4. When You Wish Upon An Alien

He grows up believing in some magic above

hovering in rain clouds or beneath

wings of a dove flying over arches made of gold

and gates never cold. So he'd hold his palms clenched

and close both his eyes

as he wished he could rise to the skies like the birds

and be free of the terrors inflicted on Earth.

He grows up asking the powers that be

to accept his fair sacrifice

and just hear his plea, for a life somewhere better

with a unicorn or two

where he'd play cards with Jesus

and get a new tattoo. One that could dance,

like the arms of cartoons. He wants a woman with boobs.

And muscles like Arny (when he toned down a bit).

He asks for more money

and for sex and a car. And just to be funny

John Lennon's guitar.

But as he gets older, he's being ignored

He hates the cold shoulder, the lord struck a chord.

He hijacks the radio waves,

slaves away for days to save

a brave youth with no responsibility

and a bank account with close to zero equity.

They found his body naked

with red circles on him painted

fainted in a forest, nests of game disturbed

pecking at his balding scalp

which crushed some baby birds

and murdered families once hiding in trees.

#3. Cross Fade To Purple

Interludes and endings always

fade to black or white.

They don't invite any intervention

to suspect a perfect height. Fighting

off all creation as it tries to fade away

as those moments of tension are

lost to fleeting greys, paying tribute

to contributing artists arresting their dreams.

Shelving all their projects above golden

speckled reams of wasted chances

and feared outcomes in the rows

or ordered chaos the boss had them

clean up.

Thirty-one-thousand days

wasted away. Hiding in his tinted purple box

to gleam in the light

to blind the teary eyed monsters

paying men to take him away

to a place hid in darkness

and eaten by bugs. Beneath rugs

of purple dust settled

he lays in wait.

Silently. Motionlessly.

Feeding soil and growing trees.

#2. The Likelihood Of Being

Our very existence is

a dot on a map. A tiny statistic in

an infinite wrap of disasters and

chance meetings. Our parents

through to ancestors.

Each decision domino-ing back

smacking any sense of anything

we currently might hold

until it's rolled to the very beginning of time.

On the theory it's not infinite that is.

Or completely static -

Finite and complete

Deceitful pre-made stories

so we can never see.

To understand this probability

is more than probably unlikely.

Freeing sperm and ovaries

combining pleas through time.

It makes no sense that we exist

but it couldn't be any other way.

The past is written by our hands

with no eraser to console.

We are unable to see our conclusion

and fail to see our sum

running from understanding

demanding a forced landing

running into forests to ensure we're always lost

on a mission to see something

we paint upon our faces.

Battle through to see ourselves

but we're simply self defeating

fleeting aims of grander

blander hopes of praise

raising eyebrows not children

to an ever failed race.

It's easier to believe that nothing is real

than to deal with the chance this

surreal shit reveals some crazy

yet accurate fractured ideal.

#1 The Mad Man In The Bush

His arms are spectacular

scarred by life's demands

they drip a certain kind of sweat

which charm those swooning hoes

blowing his troubles away.

I can see him through the window

sporting an indigo wife beater

and surfer boy shorts.

There's always wasted women

hanging from his limbs

playing games to win him

for an afternoon of bliss.

My jealous little heart doth bleed

to see them touch his bones

to lick away his misty brow

and steal my rightful moans.

To be the one to scream with him

well only time will tell -

Restraining orders are a pain,

he's dragging me through Hell.

Today's The Day

So it's 6.20 in the morning and I really wasn't expecting to be up and starting this early, but I'm here so I may as well start. Truth is, I kind of fail at the sleeping thing most of the time - apart from every so often when I am amazing at the sleeping thing and can do it for 20 hours... Guess which of those states I'm currently in...
At 2am I contemplated starting on the poems, but it almost felt like cheating. Like 2am was last night, not this morning and I was breaking some sort of rule. It's strange how we create rules and guidelines for acceptable ways to do certain things even if they, in reality, don't actually hold much value.

This is just a game, a challenge to see if I am capable and what I will come up with. I'll post them here as I go along and the titles'll go up on Twitter in case anyone decides to join in.
If any of them turn out good, then YAY. But who knows...

My 50 Poems In A Day Project

On the 13th December I will be attempting to write 50 poems. I've never done the speed writing thing before and was inspired by a guy called Tim Clare who wrote 100 on the 26th November (100poemsinaday.blogspot.com). I don't think my first attempt at speed writing should be so grand, so I'm aiming for a semi-spectacular feat of 50 instead.
Normally with poetry the title is the very last thing to come, it's something that reflects the poem, but with speed writing you need a direction otherwise you'll just get lost in the sea of possibilities and never get anywhere. You need to be specific to get things written quickly, so I am compiling a list of titles and will be posting on Twitter as I go along so people can play along if they want =]

Follow the adventure: Twitter

I'll post the creations up on a blog (either on this one or I'll create a separate one and link to it).

I don't expect to create 50 pieces of gold, but let's see what I come up with.

Because I had never tried the speed writing thing before I gave it ago yesterday and rolled out three poems. The first two of which I actually really like and will probably do something with and the third of which I actually deleted. From this experience I have a feeling that the 50 poems may get increasingly worse as the day goes on...

I imagine I probably need to do some sort of math and work out how long I can allow myself to spend on each poem and give leeway for toilet breaks and snacks. I'll do the coffee thing so I'm awake and not hungry to save time on the cooking and the eating.
I think if I wake up at 10 (I am not a morning person...) I'd leave my self 15 minutes a poem until 11pm. This allows for me to go over if need be in the last stretch to midnight. So if I aim for 10-13 minutes a poem that should allow for the little breaks here and there.
I just hope I wake up....