Stream of Consciousness

  1. Nietzsche's Ghost
    Nietzsche's Ghost
    Anyone ever try it?

    This is one of mine.

    Books rest easy on a worn desk nestled by popsicle wrappers a cell phone and counter by the clack clicking of the 21st century keyboard which Nietzsche will never rest his weary eyes upon. I crack my knuckles in despair and loneliness. What is one to do anyway? Perhaps another panic attack comes with the whoosh of AC and cold sweats. The robot is sitting right next to me watching every word I write blinking neon green in the artificially cool air. The hands cannot stop moving for if they do the world explodes so it follows that I must keep on writing until there is not a though left inside my skull its becoming more hollow by the minute. But new thoughts always come and there is nothing you can do to stay their advance. It’s true old chap. You will die unknown and alone perhaps in New York City collapsed by a pay phone from one too many hits from life and one too many drinks from hell. A man worthy of all the despisement the world can offer. A man of the world. A world worthy man. Taps the keys, nothing comes. Shakes the legs nothing comes. Legs pegs and the dregs of another tepid humid afternoon. The invincible summer is hell. I have hell inside me, beneath the winter. Pause. The world begins to end. Re-read some of the thoughts put to screen. The bombs start to drop and the children begin to scream and the old man at the chessboard weeps and the CEO can’t take it anymore and what does it matter and what is color and who am I and who could I have been and it doesn’t matter and it will never happen and it could never happen and you now die alone and afraid in a bright explosion borne of the brains of mad scientists of the 50s when godzilla walked around tokyo looking only for friendship in the postwar future consumerist industrial revolution and the whole of prose and poetry was lost in the ashes of the fireplace of siberia when the ideal was eroded and all political hopes for utopia died and were replaced by thin pieces of paper the metaphor for living death so now I guess that in fact it didn’t matter a long time ago and there is no reason to weep for it now because my boy you’ve been dead a long long time. In fact it is as if you were never really alive since your parents were born into and helped nurture this too and they can’t have lived because their parents your grandparents gave birth to this world and left it for their children to nurture and it seems that they have done a fine job of it despite what the newspapers in the gutters say the newspapers that flap and cry out for someone to read them in the dead of winter nights they can’t even be set on fire only crumble they can. How sad it is and and how joyous it is. Now we won’t exist because I have stopped typing. We won’t exist and we haven’t for a long long time. Now it is just physical. So long marie with the velvet hat. So long Odile with bank robbers and that. So long from the champs-elysee crying out new york herald tribune and be whisked to a hotel room by a bogart lover. So long from my study masquerading as a poet. So long from the world that stopped before anything happened. So long my friend, so long.
  2. OhYesIdid
    OhYesIdid
    I think stream of consciousness is an underrated narrative tool that is often overused. There must be a certain cadence to it, and it must truly feel like random thinking, otherwise it just feels lazy.