Miss Admiral Palindroning Palindrome

Miss Admiral Palindroning Palindrome

Palindrome
Cover it up
Pluck it out
Erase every trace of your self doubt
Cyclical
Every dying day
Preening
What would I say?

Palindrome
No progressive direction
Lament
Out of mental detention
I meant
There’s nothing new to discover
Going in circles
We would’ve shattered each other

Palindrome
There’s a piece missing to the puzzle
There always seems to be
You let me take off my muzzle
But still lean against the cage
The key is hinging your mind
And self-reflecting lines
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who is lying to them all?

Palindrome
Your contrasting fine line
Crossed by a self-convinced mime
Over and over and over
You say you hate what you create
And have done this countless times
There must be a reason why
Accept the tears
Smother the fire
Live in a Black Hole for a little while
Allow the tides to cover your feet
So soothing
Allow the salt to cleanse your doubts
But instead
You retreat from the beach
And never look over your shoulder
You’ve damned the fleet
Is it really too far to call it greed?

Palindroning
A mime’s words make no sounds
Think before you talk out loud
Or I’ll hear the same old
Finger pointing shouts
Ring around the Rosey
Pockets full of poison
Around and around and around
Why did only I fall down?

Palindrome
You’ve been hurt
So it’s okay to shirk?
And take a shiv to my so-called smirk?
I was skeptical for a reason
You don’t know what love really means
It’s not
Comfort
Or future
Or sutures
Go ahead and sleep on your new friend’s shoulder
I’m way better off on my own
Without deceitful weights drowning my bones

Palindrome
You were never a white dove
You’re dyed by soot from the ships you’ve burned
They could’ve been saved
If only you were forthcoming about the intention of the waves

It's Not First Class

It’s Not First Class

My lack of clarity is your dartboard.
Please.
Convince yourself that you’re sure.
Throw a few more.
Your scornful words pierce my cork.
I’ll rip them out from my core
Toss them on the stained floor.
There’s no sense in you getting hurt.
I know when to take what I deserve.
Had to turn my back on a fractured world.
There’s nothing to mend.
There’s just no more words…

These scars on my hope will only strengthen my nerve
G.P.S
On a road that will not curve.
Like a crow, those jewels often had me lured
Amethyst?
Emerald?
Not quite sure.
Those vain instruments are so trite
I’ve never been bound by banal trinkets, right?
Sold me to I
Then was inexplicably confined
Hemp burns my wrists
Can’t obey my mind
So close to completing this Trans-Atlantic voyage of mine.

I’ve mailed my wails to the world.
My fingertips scribble away past woes.
Eyes set on approaching shores.
The X on the captain’s map doesn’t exist.
As elusive as a lingering wisp.
Nothing more calming than a specter’s kiss.

Queen of Conjecture
What do you see?
Like another crowned gambler will understand me.
Playing with dice
Doesn’t matter to me
I’ll try to stride for the sky.
Backspace uncertainties.

Fill what’s empty.

Pastel Serpent

Pastel Serpent

That quartz body.
So carefully chiseled and shined.
White powder chalks your cheeks.
Being impure is not a crime.
An empty house that’s only leased.
Trite gardens are so cheap.
“Blessed are the meek”.
They’ll never find that world they’re looking for.

One quarter.
Five minutes.
Lame serpent.
Content crickets..
Two straws.
One line.
One straw.
Two shakes.
There’s nothing sentimental about a multi-layered face.

Religion might constrict our freedom to express.
But you’ve turned love into a callous excess.
Long deep sigh.
Lust filled eyes.
I can’t say I’m surprised,
that everything once alive,
is now a slithering lie.
It’s everything I despise,
but I’m way too concerned to cry.
Everyone’s become a witless mime.

White sheets over another lame soul.
I didn’t think I believed in hissing ghosts.
Hands move the same way everyday.
Pointing me away from what’s long been maimed.
No.
There’s nothing wrong with biting the apple,
but this is just something I can’t adapt to.

Cursive Review: http://www.noise-cafe.com/

Cursive
May 12, 2009
(Dingwalls, London, UK)
by chase

photo compliment of: http://anikainlondon.wordpress.com

the set list:
Butcher The Song
Dorothy At Forty
I Couldn’t Love You
The Great Decay
Rise Up! Rise Up!
From The Hips
The Game of Who Needs Who the Most
Mama, I’m Swollen
Some Red Handed Slight of Hand
Art Is Hard
What Have I Done?

encores:
The Martyr
Big Bang
A Gentleman Caller

the review:

Oh…Camdentown.  The sun never seems to be shining even when the sky is aqua and cloud deprived, but lack of sun-shone bliss never mars a day spent in Camden.  There is a strange air of mystery and gloom in an atmosphere paved in cobblestone and divided by river locks.  It’s the perfect place to meander around; eat any ethnic food you’re craving, find unique apparel, or pack into 400 person capacity venues.  The perfect place for the perfect show.
 
Dingwalls is the definition of an intimate venue.  Designed almost like a reversed ziggurat, you enter and walk down four levels to the stage.  Usually I find myself thrown into mouth-to-mouth bouts with people trying to get to the stage, but not at Dingwalls.  I watched the two opening bands on the second level and cavalierly walked down to a spot five feet from the stage.  No bruises.
 
OK.  I swear I’m getting to the point.
 
In case you don’t know Cursive, they aren’t a band who can be confined to genre boundaries.  Cursive masterfully harnesses “unconventional” instruments like cello and trumpet, which support characteristic slow paced melodies transitioning into fast paced punk flavored angst. 
 
I was expecting Cursive to play primarily tracks from Mama, I’m Swollen, but only four songs from their new release were played, while two songs from the same album were never performed in conjunction.  Well other than Some Red Handed Slight of Hand and Art Is Hard, which were just as skillfully strung together live as they were on The Ugly Organ.   The clarity and edginess of Tim Kasher’s voice was on oratory display as he flailed around the stage trying to find interesting nooks to present himself from.
 
While Kasher was perched on top of the ten-foot speakers, he preceded to share an insight before What Have I Done?.  As oral history decays from ear to ear, here’s the gist.  “You know we have a theory.  We think Mary and Joseph took a bath together.  See Joseph went in first and jacked off.  Mary went in after and was consummated.  That’s how our beloved Jesus was conceived.  *sign of the cross*”  As giggles erupt, the melodic lava begins to flow once again.
 
 The encore!  Like if the encore was a coffee, it would be three different blends of “fucking delish”.  More please.  The Martyr featured a younger Cursive sound of semi-yelling and well executed tone transitions, while Big Bang utilized trumpet and drums to appropriately mirror the name.  Gentleman Caller, which happens to one of my favorite Cursive tracks, was their final song.  Kasher was amongst the crowd; modeling for the flurry of camera flashes, hanging over a ten-foot railing, and well strengthening my already felt love for every lyric and every string and every beat.  There’s nothing more upsetting than seeing someone from the stage crew unplug the mic.
 
After the show, when asked “how’d you like them?”, I honestly couldn’t respond.  Trust me, I’m usually someone who doesn’t withhold an opinion, but as cliché as it sounds, there were no words to give Cursive justice.  So, I’ll just make up my own word.  Fantasmagasmic. 

Paper Bag and Shattered Glass

Paper Bag and Shattered Glass

Bags under my eyes like midnight’s black shawl
What could I be hiding that’s against the law?
Paper weak confidence in those fluorescent X-ed shirts
The crosswalk has made it no easier to traverse
Still tired of the present’s inherited past curse

The Men without homes are accused of instigating abuse
Just because it’s been years since They’ve bought a new pair of shoes
Shiny new cuff links, insect strewn suits, impressive cover proofs
A well-groomed sheik always prepared to make a move!
Life’s been strangled so long he’s forgot how to breathe
No wonder those Men dig trenches in their feet

A near-pacifist boy, with a jammed automatic rifle
As his binoculars scan the horizon, he forgets about the muzzle
When did the Sun forget to rise he begins to wonder?
When did the Mountains forget a Star’s cuddle?

The Mountain’s become so hollow
we’ve forgotten the sound of It’s beat
The Sun, She mourns the passing of Her Love
As we attempt to bandage our wounded feet

Factory Farming

Just a little something I wrote for my school newspaper....

Compassion Over Killing: Factory Farming Isn’t Cheap

    Instead of trudging through evergreen forests tracking the movement of our next meal, we stroll cavalierly towards the meat counter at our local supermarket, our eyes registering prices of our favorite cuts.  Social revolution; the process of straining possibility’s outer boundaries to the brink of impossibility.  This idea of progress extends its enlightened hand into every aspect of our society, especially our meat industry.  Factory farm oriented corporations, such as Tyson Foods, one of America’s largest meat producers, incur huge profits by decreasing the cost of slaughter.  Yes, meat production has increased and meat prices have plummeted the last few decades.  We economically benefit in the short term, but have you ever stopped and wondered about the environmental and moral implications of an exacerbated meat industry?

    Overproduction and ill-conceived waste management are poisoning our environment.  The Guardian reported that according to experts “producing 1kg of beef results in more CO2 emissions than going for a three-hour drive while leaving all the lights on at home.”  How cheap is cheap meat?

    Nothing relieves the consumer more than a little reassurance. A common response to claims of corporate infidelity is something to the degree of “Those accusations must be propaganda.”  The desire to preserve the comfort of our lifestyle causes us to subconsciously deny a truth, which would add a hint of hassle or strife into our already troubled life. 

    If anyone saw a carton of eggs with an “Animal Care Certified” sticker plastered to the top, one would feel a blip of moral satisfaction and be more inclined to buy the product.  In 2005, United Egg Producers (UEP) was forced to swap their misleading “Animal Care Certified” message to “United Egg Producers Certified.”  Why?  UEP, up to that point seared the beaks of their chickens without anesthetics and forced their chickens to molt.  Molting is a process of starving and overfeeding aged female chickens to force a short increased laying response before they are slaughtered.   Factory farming corporations aren’t just blatantly overexploiting animals, but masking their own immorality with false advertising.  How do you feel about an industry, which uses misleading advertizing to extend their profit margins?

    Look at both sides of the argument and the facts supporting each case.   You have a choice.  A cheaper meal can mean complicity to torture, so make an effort to know where your meat comes from.  Question “guarantee” labels on meat packages. Curiosity and concern should not be withheld. If the stigma of the meat industry is too much for you to bear, take greater strides to choose organic or vegetarian alternatives.  Your food choices may seem like a feudal protest, but just remember the greatest ethic changes in history occurred because people challenged the socially accepted.