I don’t want to leave,
No more constant go, do.
No more constant go, do.
I look around, but there’s nothing,
nothing to find,
or to grasp a hold of
no branch on a cliff
that would emerge to grab me by
my belt or underwear
to give me an atomic wedgie. I fall.
I am leaving,
but what am I leaving behind.
I am not leaving, I can never leave.
I am stuck like a beef tenderloin in a freezer,
eat me, cut me with your knife,
hold me down here.
I don’t want to leave.
Each day repeats, repeats, retreats, repeats.
I am leaving this reprehensible mess to you,
and your political hookers with jock straps.
I am leaving.
I hate you, your society, and its personality.
Nothing ever changes, time is stuck in between
the cogs that clog our social circulation.
We are lost in triviality.
I don’t want to leave.
Put your blame on me,
there’s an option with a provocative magnitude,
silence the press.
silence the world.
silence the ones who speak,
and those who never will.
I am leaving.
I don’t want to leave anymore.
oremyna evael ot tnaw t’nd I,
On and on and on and on
Originally this was written January 2012, and this poem for some reason happened to be my most successful odd poem on the site that it was originally on.
I’ll post it here now, in all of its 2013 glory.
The ransacked, ravaged, pillaged daughter weeping
she talks and walks the whimsical traviatarie .
With a sack full of rocks stringed to her Sunday shoe,
She plans to see them stars by the lake with the moon.
OH, PRAISE THE HELLALUJAH!
When your born on the sinner’s season,
And all you gotta do is to go down.
Become an example of Lord Jesus,
The priest he’ll hoist your sad life –on the cross.
The water was wet and bleak like winter’s morning,
She stood there feeling all her rippling tears–
as she tried the withering cold stones with her toes.
Wisps and nightmares were dancing in her eyes
And she could not stand a lifetime at the Devil’s side.
Lord Lord Lord,
Satan came camping at her door.
He took these serpents of pure evil,
set them and provoked them–
to slither within her poor an’ mangled brain.
As the girl sunk into the cavern of her desperation.
Her lungs started to fill with gleaming diamonds and gold,
Gasps of terror-filled her mind, she stretched out one pleading hand
but it was too late and to the bottom of the lake she went straight.
there she watches the summer children swim with her beauty all Bloated and blue.
snowfield by miki korhonen
Here are some photos I took last winter in my hometown of Helsinki, Finland.
A black and white picture of the sea during the long lonesome wintertime.
Brian Jackson and Gil Scott-Heron in studio, 1973 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There is one thing that grinds me up the wall, and that is when people just go around saying: “The revolution will be televised!”
Sure, it sounds all cool n’ it sounds all “we’ll turn the cameras on you”, but for some reason it doesn’t do justice to the original coined by Gil Scott-Heron.
“The revolution will not be televised”, and you can’t plug in, turn on, and cop out. It’s all right there.
Now I ask you, why would the revolution be televised? Would it be televised on FOX, MSNBC, ABC, HBO, or on MTV?
Would it be televised so you can just watch it happen, comfortable from your own home eating a sandwich saying to yourself:
“Mmhm, yeah I guess I could agree with this change.”
“That song was about your mind. You have to change your mind before you change the way you live and the way you move…The thing that’s going to change people will be something that no one will ever be able to capture on film. It will just be something you see and all of a sudden you realize ‘I’m on the wrong page.'”
–Gil Scott-Heron on the catchphrase
Now, of course back in the day when Gil Scott-Heron coined the term, it was mostly aimed at the black American.
The American who was born American, but still had to fight for his right to be what he was born to be. I still think that the message he has can be seen as rather universal, it can be expanded and taken to any part of the world, to any culture and to any kind of revolution. Be it of the mind, or another kind.
Maybe some artist prefer to re-invent and televise their revolution, but I find it disrespectful to the original.
In the end that’s just my opinion and I decided to go for a rant blog.
And if you don’t know who Gil Scott-Heron is, shame on you…
I am Finnish, but I don’t write in Finnish. I am barely capable of communicating in Finnish, but today I felt like I had to try writing in that language that my parents speak. I am afraid that my poetry won’t do justice for the Finnish language and they won’t do justice to me either. They’re raw and full of visceral ideas that could be left unsaid, but who the hell cares? This is what I sound like in Finnish.
The poem is called “HJ”, the abbreviation for Hitler Youth. This already looks promising, doesn’t it?
(A translation will be provided below.)
Hitler-Jugend marssii parvekkeellani
otan haulikkoni ja ammun aivoni pihalle,
Hitler-Jugend alkaa runkkaamaan.
ja survoo pienen pippelinsä ampumahaavaani
hän päästää suustaan hiljaisen voihkaisun
täyttäen kalloni siemennesteellä
ja marssi jatkuu….
ruhostani kasvaa yksinäinen
HJ in English (as translated from above)
This Hitler Youth kid is marching on my balcony
I take my shotgun and blow my brains out
my brain flies past a children’s playground
So, The Hitler Youth kid starts jerkin’ it
He kneels down
and rams his puny junk into my gunshot wound
He let’s out a silent sigh
and fills what’s left of my head with his semen
The march carries on….
and a lonesome
White Rose grows
from my bones.
Everybody knows that daddy used drugs.
Everybody knows that daddy was addicted.
Everybody knows that daddy exists.
You don’t know that daddy was a rock star.
Everybody knows that daddy was wild.
Everybody knows that daddy is obsessed by violence.
Everybody knows that daddy is sex incarnate.
You don’t know that daddy knew not how to love.
Everybody knows that daddy could be dead.
Everybody knows what daddy has done.
Everybody knows that daddy is crazy.
.but there ain’t nobody knows how much daddy loves
sky line ghost photograph by miki korhonen 1024×595
All rights reserved by Mikiquake
A ghastly reflection on a window. It rises from the sea.
It’s a ghost, a ghost!