"The Divine Conscript" In Petrarchan Sonnet Form

How vexed is modern man, the listless heir
To parable and prose, to sordid script,
Starved for instruction, he seals his Crypt,
Chattel to a watchful paragon's glare;
Idle cherub minds in pilloried prayer,
As fostered lamb on lifeless blade is stripped
broken and dismantled, the divine conscript
lacerates thee to the beat of his snare (despair)
Flog the yawning Centurion with haste
Hold his stead with wide eyes and dare not stray
Or return to the barracks, deed erased
As devout thieves lament their Lord's decay
And howl like orphans "Don't leave us to die
like winge'd game from celestial sky"

They howl "Noxious Christ, we will all soon die
as winge'd game from celestial sky"

They howl like orphans "Ne'er leave us to die
as winge'd game from celestial sky"


They howl like orphans "ne'er lead us awry
as winge'd game from celestial sky"

Allocation Exhausted (The Convenient Idiosyncracies of Hybrid Hardcore)

'Sold out', a demoralizing and dreaded label by any band with a semblance of integrity. For vacuous, uninspired collaborations of electro and gangsta-rap that currently dominate the airwaves the prospect is not so much of a consequence as an achievement. Soulja Boy has every right to bask in the silence of victory, just like the prolific DJ/Guy wearing a tank top/kid sitting at his computer using Virtual DJ BETA Edition who remixed his music. Both parties took a heavily-exhausted angle and somehow made money off it-a feat impressive by any standards. However, it is impossible to argue that the entire pop genre isn't based on the concept of "selling out" or compromising one's musical integrity in appeal to a force fed MTV-generational fan base.

In recent years I have observed a trend of scrupulous pop-punk bands I once enjoyed debilitate and cross the divide, allowing their music to be exhausted by the radio repeat button. I reflected on this when yesterday I listened to the band "30 Seconds To Mars" for the first time in several years. Here is one band that, through no fault of its own, made the descent into the playlists of pre-pubescent teenage girls nationwide and was subsequently deleted from my memory. To this current day I cautiously change radio stations, hoping that the bands I happen to enjoy haven't made the transition into the public's stream of collective consciousness. Which brings me to the point of my ravings; One thing I found interesting about the song "The Kill (Bury Me)" by 30STM was the fact that in radio edits there was a notable absence of Jared Leto's climactic scream towards the end of the chorus. Let it be assumed that the broadcasting station identified screaming as so intensely inconducive to gathering listeners that they actually censored it.

If this is the case, it certainly explains my adoration of the pop-punk/hardcore genre, embodied by such bands as The Devil Wears Prada, A Day to Remember and Four Year Strong. Perhaps the popularity of such bands can be attributed to the confidence of fans that their music will never become mainstream so long as the distinctive hardcore undercurrent remains undisturbed. Do such pop-punk fans tolerate the insufferable breakdowns and "gross holes in that guys ear" for just that reason. And should such bands be labeled as sell-outs themselves as proponents to what is arguably a half-hearted genre?

untitled

Do you yearn for tragedy?
A tapestry of trauma you can see?
Falling skies and tempered seas
A telltale heartbeat

Cities burn on your mistakes
a secret you discovered far too late
Thinning weaves for lady fate
let's hope she can't tempt you

Cause everything is different now
Your film has a new director, tell me how
He plans to work this out
And everything else that you've gone and forgotten about

Man's Edifice

"May it not be that he loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his object and completing the edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does not want to live in it..."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From The Underground

He carves a life, of knife and 'fold
Of sweat and sweet respite
Through scaffold grate, do winds of fate,
His fears they do incite
And rue the day he must conclude
And set it all alight