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Last Active 01-01-70 12:00 am
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| Update #3/Synecdoche, New York Poem
Life's been the ultimate mixed bag for a while now. I've dealt with a lot that I can't possibly begin to describe. Things have just been hectic overall. Suffice to say, I am struggling to find a lot of happiness and general inspiration in life, I'm going to be transferring to another college to try and stabilize myself, and I am quickly losing ambition in many things. Writing reviews has been a saving grace, my last-standing creative outlet, and I am endlessly grateful for Sputnik's consistent support--it really means a lot. I am still trying to complete my Genre Preferences side-project and keeping up with music, but it's a bit of a difficult ride. I know I'll get through it, it's just hard to see the endpoint. Thanks for being there for me, it is all appreciated. | | 1 |  | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
I was suddenly driven to write a poem based off of my favorite movie of all time: Synecdoche, New York. I realize that it is far from perfect and probably trash to begin with, but I am content with having gotten it out of my system. It was something that had to be written, a compulsion that could not be ignored. Hope you enjoy. Once again, all the love is such a wonderful thing. You guys are better than you give yourselves credit for. Without further ado, I call this: Life, as Described by the Dead | | 2 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Motions
Endless motions
Daily exhaustions
Pull down my skin.
Living
Without living.
Routine breathing
Providing no meaning. | | 3 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
And if you’re gone away, flower of mine,
Keep positivity of me in mind.
Ignore the paper or the worries of ill-health.
Remember the days I held your hand,
And the games you liked to play.
The youth that propelled you across the sidewalk,
How I envied it all:
To have joy in each step—to be untethered to bad weather. | | 4 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
But it could not have been my cloud hanging over,
When true love rose not from your mother.
She left us, she left us, she left me.
This vision had been borrowed, so said critique,
As that view of hers shrunk to proportions unique.
My brittle heart, tempted by a red flame,
My bitter marriage, tempered by distance:
There must be purpose in this. | | 5 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
A direction in art—a finite moment of bodies intertwined.
To reach ultimate bliss through a tangible kiss,
I wish the way I was wasn’t the way I was.
No matter how close you approach and how far she becomes,
The convoluted constructs of my convoluted mind will push you out,
Even when you’ve got my happiness figured out.
Now I’m given a chance to dodge this romance
To bring a story out of allegory:
The purpose of the bullshit of this lonely, lonely life. | | 6 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
"I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore. We're all hurtling towards death, yet here we are for the moment, alive. Each of us knowing we're going to die, each of us secretly believing we won't.” | | 7 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
I have learned to split my soul into a million pieces.
I compartmentalize all my lies
So all these rooms I thus immortalize
To make every corner of my life cry in unison. | | 8 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
The sun’s not out for you lot, you’ve problems in your thought.
Divorce, division, cancerous cells plague virtually all affairs.
We are the grayest form of black and white, and until this is understood
I will build and build until walls line up my consciousness.
Do not question, fall in line, fall in line,
Take cues from your notes, step inside your assigned doors.
Nobody breathes, nobody moves a muscle outside of coordinated motion.
Motion, daily motion, now emblematic of daily discomforting.
Is the bedroom a retreat? Do I think with my pain or what I fuck?
Is the rooftop an escape? Do I think with my pain or step away from the edge? | | 9 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
A missed chance, futile glance, arms dragging me back.
Put me back on the edge, let me scramble off the ledge.
If this red flame is to extinguish in my gaze, I’ll have none of this charade.
You can take my love, you can take my flower, but without her happiness I’ll last not another hour.
This bedroom must be a retreat; those hungry eyes must be my sanctuary.
Think with what you fuck—what are names for anyways? | | 10 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“They said he suffered horribly, and that he called out for me before he died. They said that he said he regretted his life. They said he said a lot of things, too many to recount, and they said it was the longest and the saddest deathbed speech any of them had ever heard.” | | 11 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Change in the script,
Insert marriage.
Insert dispute.
Insert the longing for lost love.
Insert new walls.
Insert disregard.
Insert, insert, insert.
I need a new wall over here now or this story simply cannot do. | | 12 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Goodbye support system, that which I made love to, that which walks out the door.
Your part will be replaced as this machine expands, as the borders enlarge.
Farewell father, obscured in my mind, tool for my depression.
Insert depression, insert divorce number two.
I need a new wall over here now or this story simply cannot do. | | 13 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“I will have someone play me, to delve into the murky, cowardly depths of my lonely, fucked-up being. And he'll get notes too, and those notes will correspond to the notes I truly receive every day from my god! Get to work!” | | 14 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
You’ve been piercing through to my backstage.
You’ve observed every step.
You’ve felt a red flame out of my grasp.
You’ve seen a rose whither through remoteness.
Fall in line as I fall in line.
Feel my pain as I feel my pain.
She left us. They left us. She left us. They left us. | | 15 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Where once resolve stood, it now rests, slumbers through monotony.
Skyscrapers shoot as narratives take root, cracking this concrete soil:
What a hellish maze of aimless ambition stacked in lousy hotels,
Populated by the lonely, the despondent, the ones to fade away,
As we hurtle towards this death, this death with no meaning.
Do you sense it as I do? Do you know it as I do?
If such a beast can be melted by fire, may I find the path? | | 16 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Now, who do you think you are as you soar above your notes?
Is your autonomy excused in your privileged abuse?
The way you weave and work and worm into an innocent heart.
It’s not meant to be for you, fall in line, fall in line.
My word is law, my word is the iron fist of God.
My word made this city, my word made these stories,
And these stories made you. These stories are you.
You fall in line, fall in line, don’t you question my goddamned mind. | | 17 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“Watch my heart break. Watch me jump. Watch me learn that after death there's nothing. There's no more watching. There's no more following. No love.” | | 18 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Her head will reside next to mine.
Her lips will erase the agony propagating up and down my spine.
Her limbs will spread across this fragile frame and I will feel beautiful.
We will merge in a fatal embrace, we will become whole.
I will see the gold in the sun and it will grace me for the first time.
Back from that ledge, back from that ledge,
You betray the script, you betray yourself, you betray the vision I possess.
I didn’t jump. I didn’t jump. I didn’t jump. I didn’t jump.
Get up. I never left the ledge. Fall in line. Fall in line. | | 19 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
It must be bigger. It must expand. It must have everything.
There’s no room left for doubt
When a soul is split into a million pieces. | | 20 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“Time is concentrated and chronology confused for him. Up until recently he has strived valiantly to make sense of his situation, but now he has turned to stone.” | | 21 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
The towers, how tall they climb.
How tall my love for you still ascends; how the feeling lingers,
Even when contact is limited to bedsheets in my fingers:
Discarded, disassociated with all but the scent of you.
I navigate rooms,
I peer out the windows.
I don’t think I’ll ever have a boundary to this city.
I don’t think there’s a boundary to spare.
There’s no meaning yet, this cannot end yet. | | 22 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Motion, daily motion, basic crawling towards the unknown.
Conclusions unwritten may be possibly abandoned or otherwise destroyed.
I wanted to take all with me, but everyone around me seems to die by the minutes,
Their memories decaying circadian-esque six feet below in life’s undertow.
My vision meanders; inspiration decreases in the dozen,
The mechanical mastery of my maniacal fantasy dully conquering a dying scene. | | 23 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Eyes, gifted in sight, twice gifted in theatrical perspective,
Now shut, hollowed-out, blanketed by disillusionment.
Eyes, depraved in their lack, metaphorical in how they constantly betray myself. | | 24 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. | | 25 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.” | | 26 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Why do we wait so long to appreciate what we have?
Filthy humanity cursed upon us—we second-guess all gifts bestowed.
We clothe ourselves in insecurities to disguise our perceived peculiarities,
Afraid of the choices, afraid of our shadows, too dedicated to our dooms,
The what-ifs, the what-nots, the what-thens and what-nows,
And the what-now I’m left with is a what-could that will persist,
If only I had seen.
If only I looked away from myself.
If only I saw you through the blinders of my conceit. | | 27 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
But my vision.
My pain.
My art, my success, my life.
My vision. | | 28 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Did it swallow us both?
Did it blow you out, dear red flame?
Our bones droop in their sagging frames,
Wrinkled surfaces define age progression.
Old brains we be, old hearts we be at our cores. | | 29 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Why do we wait so long to appreciate what we have?
When you passed, dear flower, I knew you a liar,
Turned heretic by a mother’s loyal pawn.
Though you left and took root in another landscape,
My love for you will endure unfaltering. | | 30 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Why did I wait so long?
To wake up now and know that it’s over?
That the purpose I craved was the one I drained?
The one story that mattered, the room I required,
Torn down by the hand that acted as owner.
I evacuated my solace—there’s nothing left to cling to,
To wake up now and know your heartbeat succumbed to your ash. | | 31 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“I know how to do the play now. It will all take place over the course of one day. And that day will be the day before you died. That day was the happiest day of my life. Then I'll be able to live it forever. See you soon.” | | 32 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Does anyone even live here anymore?
The world seems to be crumbling; does anyone happen to be alive?
I’ve lost my own script and fell out of my own line.
Infrastructure decomposes—what worked will no longer work.
Monolithic monologues to sadness and motionlessness,
Embodied no longer in such displays of creator neglect.
But am I even creator, do I deserve the title?
As a flower’s mother is buried under,
Do I deserve a claim to any name outside of my eternal shame? | | 33 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Ambition disarmed me.
Hopelessly, I was lost in a vision never fully controlled.
Art spiraled into a madness all-consuming.
The product of remnants would never fit a stage, there’d never be an audience,
Not for this drivel: the incessant ramblings of life’s greatest detractor. | | 34 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Now I wander these streets, far from sober,
Drunk from the fountain of self-induced pity.
I hardly recognize signs I made when my body was God.
I wander these streets, story-less, forgotten streets.
Their memories hold no meaning to me.
Their purpose is mangled and as I now look upon,
They never had a purpose to begin with.
I never had a purpose to begin with.
I never existed outside of a shell of my misfortune, a city of misery.
I never existed outside of my despair. I never was a man to his word.
I never was. I never was. I never was. I never was.
I never was. I never was. I never was. I never was. | | 35 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Rise, wake, open these sleeping irises.
Walk, march, move to the ending. | | 36 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone's experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone's everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel, Claire, Olive. You are Ellen. All her meager sadnesses are yours; all her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. It's yours. It is time for you to understand this.” | | 37 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Rise, wake, open these sleeping irises.
Walk, march, move to the ending. | | 38 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, at 7:43. Now you are here, at 7:44. Now you are... Gone.” | | 39 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
I’ve seen this face before—a dream of sorts.
We never met. We never talked.
You were a figure in a story. As was I—a man in fantasy.
Spare me this last moment. Save my final breath.
Remember not the aged frame or the lesson it brings.
Say not a word. Save my final breath.
Remember me not as I am, but as I was. | | 40 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
Beyond the point of descent, I leave one trace, one claim to a dead dream.
I leave you all this:
In undeserved triumph—a resounding defeat—I lay one claim to my dead dream. | | 41 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
I split my soul into a million pieces.
I split my soul into a million pieces.
I split my soul into a million pieces.
I split my soul into a million pieces. | | 42 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
“I know what to do with this play now. I have an idea. I think...” | | 43 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
"Die" | | 44 | | Jon Brion
Synecdoche, New York
(thank you for reading - Mars) | |
MarsKid
04.06.18 | In which I make pretentious shit inspired by a movie that's meant a shitton to my life. Anything in quotations is an excerpt from the film.
Hope you like it. Much love from Marsbro. | cylinder
04.06.18 | Love this movie so this grabbed me. This is legit man. Asking the big questions without getting sentimental. I like how it almost has an “unwritten” vibe to it too, if that makes sense. Like it seemed like it was writing itself | MarsKid
04.06.18 | Thank you for giving this your time man, and I'm glad you liked it. It just sort of sprouted from my consciousness haha, so that feeling is pretty accurate. Things came as they happened to come. | brainmelter
04.06.18 | movie is great | cylinder
04.06.18 | when a work of art genuinely inspires you to make art of your own, that’s one of the best feelings (imo) haha | MarsKid
04.06.18 | I've always wanted to write something dedicated to this, and tonight just happened to be the moment. | SteakByrnes
04.06.18 | That is a behemoth of a writeup, I dig it
32, 32, and 38 passages especially, I could feel those my man
I love you Mars my bro < 3 | MarsKid
04.06.18 | Thanks for reading man. I'm glad that parts of it really struck, that left an impact. That's the best I can ever hope to do. Thank you. | SteakByrnes
04.06.18 | I wish I had the patience or drive to write poetry, but it's never came to me | MarsKid
04.06.18 | It all depends to be honest. If the moment's not right it feels like I'm forcing myself. When inspiration hits, time just breezes by. | SteakByrnes
04.06.18 | I feel that, happens to me all the time when trying to write guitar stuff | MarsKid
04.06.18 | I've written pretty much everything that way. It's like a coping mechanism of sorts. Usually, if I like, 'consciously' make a poem/lyrics, they turn out rough and not as good |
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