K. Shawn Edgar | Cheeseball | Hat Rack | Total Loser | Thankful
Notes and Rants from YouTube Comment Section
True, but I think many people do maintain a high level of integrity, and we should encourage everyone in that regard. However, it only takes one dishonest voice to start an avalanche of disinformation. As for it being even worse “the opposite way around,” governments and cultures that have strictly controlled speech and assembly by overtly censoring and brutalizing citizens don’t tend to last because that kind of control forces the people to act, to rise up, rather than just talk.
Hamlet: That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words….
There are a couple of exceptions to the failure of that method, of course, like North Korea. But the best control is the babbling brook of excessive freedoms without due responsibility and regulation.
K. Shawn Edgar | Florid Fellow
A Change of State
Punch it out,
the eyeblack pucker
is a platonic knuckle kiss
from five friends of fingers curled.
Five friends, eating away the earth
from opposite ends
that we stood upon
together; it’s the circle-curly snake
hissing blame for blame’s sake.
Later, scrub those red-flecked nails
clean; we upcoming tribes divided
from too much large group introspection.
Not enough personal introspection, reflection.
So were those labels real and accurate?
Did they hide spies behind friendly faces?
Or friends hiding behind calculated moves
based on old grudges and emotional wounds
loosely covered by classroom logic 1, 2, 3s?
Rebound and thrust; we split along the cracks
between nits and picks, new forging our indirect,
underlying rational arguments out of parietal rules.
As each breaking point produced another truest
segment of the overall group, the call arose:
We are the real face of the front!
Stop bringing up nuanced points!
Your preciseness! And your dedication
to criticizing ourselves and everyone
is falling behind our oval correctness.
Our oblique correctness! For us, or
against us?! Forward with Us! Or,
fall back against Us.
K. Shawn Edgar | Eyes on the Inside | Progressively Ongoing & Progressing to Go On | What?
Holy moly shit, can’t explain it
I love when torn down, smashed up
I can’t go too long before I need to
I’m a terrible person who just doesn’t
know it yet
Falling down, hitting the ground, and
The best things are broken things.
It’s an ugly eyeball belch that wants
in all this grateful
I put my paint fork
into your spider web
you gotta bleed
you gotta get the lazy
You have to wash away
what’s become cobwebs
in an empty, pale green room.
Swelling with Tomorrow’s birth
I exhale dust and you go forth
We scrape and bruise true,
appearing grander with the coloring.
K. Shawn Edgar | Public Display Artist | Enemy of the Slate
Shot From My iGun Into Your Bulletproof Devices
All These Spiders Spin Webs
Oh, the compelling narratives we weave and wonder about … how slick, how silken … all are mobile truths made of soap bubbles and steam, slyly written on cobwebs in the dew-drenched darkness.
A hint of thyme, local honey and turpentine, with a pinch of violets and posies, over just enough truth not to be 100% false. Lies will tantalize. If they toss a treat-shaped puzzle piece, a treat disposal-shaped mouth will fit pegs to indents. Scooby. Snack. Heavy.
I’m awake, and if you’re dreaming you should stay that way. Dreaming is doing. Out here, with eyes opened, it’s a different slice of skin sheen, at all times half-life unworthy. “We are waiting, taking up space.”
Meanwhile, in the Up Space, droning like nano-maximized, hyper-personalized, convenience-infused, and overtly friend-friendly distractions (Read: Obstacle Golf) are watching us like Monsanto watches its GMO seed patents. Closely. With glistening greed fingers rubbing in a counterclockwise motion. They are agro | chemical | contaminated | fang smile
You are not a person, only a collective reflection of habits — points of interest on an ever-changing line.
K. Shawn Edgar | Toothless Wolf | Weightless Hammer | Dead Soon
“Take me out … to the black; tell ’em I ain’t coming back.”
—You know who sang it – 2002
“Once, in flight school, I was laconic.”
I’m no longer in flight school.
I speak with strangers in whispery chirps,
breaking words into nonexistent syllables:
H e low st rain ger s d ream ing bot tel roc ket s
Weird, soft wisps of bird-like thoughts
coming out my mouth in all lower case:
light is a softly scream sliver once tasted.
High and above the head, like circling halos
letters as sounds, not quite recognizable.
The tonally laconic double-tap of a pensive priest
afoul the empty building windows, speaking in O’s.
Orchestrated glass cracks and whitewashed tag coverages
matte painted on a facade of ginger candy wrappers.
I sully my truest thoughts with these florid words.
K. Shawn Edgar | Half-Tone | Goth Newt | Layabout
Bonfire by the Fifth-Wheel
Chrystal Gale drums on Kipper’s shaved head; rhythm of movement
Sixteen paws, rambunctious to the core of their wild kitten hearts,
dance through the tall tan grasses and into the rutted goat tracks
Hurdling the utility-orange extension chords, sixteen paws thrive
Liam is fostering coals from last season’s flame in a dry soup can
Carefully he introduces them to a nest of pinecones and twigs
We count down: five for the nightingale, four for the gargoyle
We cast ashes of our ancestors as Liam stacks the knurled logs up
Three for the toadstool, two for the lamassu, and one for the fire
The chill air puts on a smokey coat, wrapping us in its long scarfs
Sixteen paws under eight sparkles: cats’ eyes reflect new flame’s light
Liam is shadow casting stories on the fifth-wheel’s off-white exterior
a mythical grandeur toned common gray; medium is his co-pilot
Its years of dust, pollution and oxidation weaved into the timeless art
the sprouting of symbol from meaning and gesture from understanding
the contagion of comfort from repetition, a comfort from familiarity
Liam’s inoculations, in lofty tones, sooth the beating hearts to silence
K. Shawn Edgar | Cog Boss | Poet Mime | Salad Slayer