Big Bang Theory

The first BIG BANG was the echo of a cough
Which reverberated the sound of tar filled lungs.

Warning
Cigarettes may will cause cancer.

This cancer is called life,
Grown from the bacteria of a smoker’s phlegm.

Here we stand created;
Not from monkeys but,
The Remains of Tumors.
(Or maybe monkeys are a premature stage of such diseases)

We’ve grown…
Bustling cities only add to the decay,
Asteroids are antibodies,
The sun our nuclei.

Here he stands created…

And so it was born;

The story of a young boy,
Who never took the time
To wonder where it all came from.

He is but a monkey
Wearing his feces,
And giggling at the humility.
Pride is his diaper.

His mother cradled him gently
Rocking back and forth
With the sway of drunken romance.

His father is was her sailor
But he abandoned ship when he realized-
The ropes fastening him to the mast
Were too tight.

He stole the life boat and headed west.
(The desert has no waters for which to impede
I wonder if he changed costumes.)

Tell me this is life
and I’ll turn a cold shoulder,
But the heat of realization
Will soak me I’m sure.
And in that puddle
I’ll find depth in perception,
Although my peripherals
Are no more than tunnel walls.

In this tunnel he faced his first encounter
With those burning white lights
That always resembled high beams.

Me?

I’ve played Manhunt with Death.
He found me minutes into the game
But I was just too agile for him to tag.
My legs gave way but I kept running
Because in life there is no base.

1.
2..
3…

Not It.

While I found sanctum in the sanctuary of sleep
So many became lost in the aftermath.

Insomnia isn’t a normal disease
It’s what you make of it -
Sleep is unnecessary
When you don’t have any dreams.

In having no dreams,
One can have no process of imagination.
Imagination is the tape
In which Angels sprint through panting.

That night there were no angels

Only a priestess choking on her prayers.

And so came the basis of religion from an orphan’s eyes,
Dilated by the sweet taste of freedom.
Oh how intoxicating it must have been…
To look in the face of death and spit on his shadow.

But spit always finds time to dry
Unlike the tap in which salt water breaks.
Those hands with lines so fragile…
That became canyons for the ocean to run through.

So many wishes float away on tides
Uncontrolled by the anchors we’ve dropped.
A buoy cast out by a fisherman who knew
Such things came with the season.

Intrepid feet felt fragments flash by
Fueled by loss and alternative woes,
A past lined with grievances only known
By a student of Earth’s crucial mistakes.

And so he grew, he reached to the stars
But his hands were chained down
By the sturdy links of realism
And the casual interruption of the sun.

That white picket fence had become chain linked
Just like the shackles around his ankles
That reminded him of home.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL

The alarm has gone off,
The watchtower is on fire,
And the last ship is sinking,
Under a veil of smoke and fog.

As lungs allow the partial matter
To invade its every crevice.
The mind gains sustenance
From gray clouds of fury.

The mind cannot be allowed to float...
Because a useless mind is dangerous
To the safety of sanity everywhere.

This is not yet a depression...
But it's getting closer.

Apathy is the hidden art of the artless
That the heartless define as
Freedom.
When the careless become the caring
Fewer things will be known for certain
And more things will be questioned.

Alas, those who do not care
Care not for consequence
So the consequence for caring is

Unknown

But as the smoke clears…
Pessimism gives way to the illusion
That maybe the world
Can clear itself from the foreboding fires
Of celebrated fallacies.

"I will not tell a lie" he said
But he held his fingers behind his back.
A thousand sleepless nights
Felt like a single day
Each night just a closing of the blinds

(close your eyes)

We’ve been living in the dark this long
What’s a little longer?

We have yet to find in this darkness,
That feeling we can’t describe.

I have…

Its that feeling you get when you realize:
Breathing is irrelevant.
Its that feeling you get when you realize:
You’ve stumbled upon the first of your endless numbers days.
Its that feeling you got when you realized
You were having your first kiss
With the first person you ever fell in love with
And for the first time you realized what the word meant.

Because in our busy schedules
We have yet to realize
The point of living

Is to

LIVE

And at that exact moment it all comes together
You can open your eyes and stare into the sun
Without being blinded

And that feeling that you get at the bottom of your stomach
Is going to come up past your lungs
And past your heart
Up your throat
And out of your mouth as a single word...

bang

Reviews

[Devons]

This poem is overwhelming. It's almost beyond the limits of a review. It is an EPIC rollercoaster-ride of poetry - philosophies, theories, observations, satire, humour, drama, abstract thought, etc. etc. ad infinitum.
Mind-blowing stuff! There's so much going on within this piece of work that it cannot properly be done justice to in these meagre words i am writing. There are far too many facets to it; far too many forms; far too many brilliant verses, words; far too many ideas... I could go on...
I love the tangents upon which this poem seems to dance off upon with the greatest alacrity and glee!! It is a real pleasure.
It asks many many questions, resolves some, raises more - but they are all significantly handled, so it matters not.
The only problem i can see is that the sheer immensity of this work may well discourage timid minds and eyes...

PS. it will be a pleasure to accept your friendship, sir!!

[Gomer LePoet]

I could be a wiseass here and ask the simple question - and your point is?
but it is obvious that you have many points. I do not see how I could make a better statement then what Devons has left. This response is almost as good as the piece being reviewed. It is like the clash of the Titans. Excellant work my friend.