Tuesday, June 12, 2012

That Feeling I Get, Only On Sunday

The following is a poem that I wrote tonight.  It compliments my inner struggles as of late and I thought I would share it with the world. 

Dawn is approaching; my mind weighs heavily
Realization and dread begin to set in,
For it is back to the grind on Monday!
And the Slavery still reigns.
The legalized plantation with their snickering smiles and judgemental eyes.

The "Man" craves the robotic feast.
So he eats and eats and eats some more,
Until his belly is full and there is nothing left.
But his consumption is never ending,
we're on "life's" belt and moving toward his awaiting mouth.

The darkness surrounds us, one by one,
In the belly of the beast we boil and writhe.
One by one they (we) continue to fall,
The belly becomes quickly overpopulated.
Crowded in the abyss, flesh upon flesh,
We are joined, we are one!

But with many minds, and only one "man",
We strive and learn to fight,
Or burn in his acidic abode.
Yes, some give up.
Others become complacent.
Most will eventually perish.

The remaining few, with the idea in mind,
begin to fight.

We scratch.  We crawl.  We climb.

Some fall, others are trampled in the riot.
The few that make it up the throat, give up and die,
Only to be swallowed again.

At long last, one warrior stands alone,
Just at the top of the "Man's" tongue.

Freedom is his.
He can sense it.
He can see it.

With one swift, and powerful motion,
the tongue, like a serpent, coils.
He's like a pinball, bouncing off the fleshy walls.

Thrown into the air.
Free falling, descending back into darkness,
Back into the belly of the beast, back into the machine.
Back into the awaiting cesspool.
There's no end to nothingness.

Back to reality now.
And the impending doom,
That tomorrow is near.


  1. That is, by far, the best way I've ever heard someone say "I hate Mondays". We'll written!

    "There is no end to nothingness"

    Awesome work bud.

  2. That is beautiful, my Good Aethereal Spirit Brother. I understand it and it can relate to people on many levels. I think it is important to know what the Author intends, but I think it is equally important to allow the consumer (the one with the consumption; the appetite) to make The Work their own; put it in their own life.

    Read my note on Fb called "This Song Is Me" (or something like that) It really, speaks to the volume of this. As it relates to me; I've been so close to success yet it seems I'm so close to beauty I can touch the tongue with my own only to have my jaw snapped shut my by own Will To Fail.

    I do not intend to have this Will; and I know that This Will To Fail is NOT my Destiny; but it seems like I've been so close to many forms of Success only to bring failure MYSELF; without the aid of another.

    Beauty is so close, so close; yet, through fear it disappears, I make it out of the stomach to be burned my the bile; I know in the end I will not be spit out, but will become nourished through becoming nourishment. Assimilation of Beauty.

    It is a fear, but we can, we can, we can Rise Above, but we do have to crawl through the bile and the Hydrochloric Acid of The Stomach of Existence Himself.

    Jeremy Franklin Yachimowski

  3. Thank you guys very much. I wrote this in about five minutes while taking Bosco out. Harry, you're obviously right about "hating Mondays", but I also intended this poem to be about life in general. Yes, I had my job (that I hate) in mind, but there at the end it kinda turns into its own monster. As I sit back and read it (something I don't often do with my own work) I'm drawn to it again and again. I'm proud of this effort and it really inspires me to keep going.

    Jeremy, you are my brother, my friend, my fellow artist companion. I need you to pick up the pen, pencil or type writer and begin another project. Your "Mixed Signals" was an amazing piece of work. If you don't continue writing daily (YES I SAID DAILY) then you're letting your talent go to waste.

    Love you both,

    Create, inspire,


  4. Yeah I agree that this poem can be applied to many other things in life. The minute you feel that you're on top (or at least getting there) you are violently thrown back down into the pit with no remorse.