Hiro Protagonist

I love this song by Clutch.

MOLT
(Outtake from "Transnational Speedway League")

If I can't win,
Then I will multiply.
You cannot oppose
What you can't recognize.
Drop down, drop down,
All the angels sing.
Drop down to all fours
Like an ape, like a child, like dog, like a king.

Like a king.

I'm a walking definition
Of a defense mechanism.
I have no wants, I only know needs,
And what I need now is a new anatomy.
And they are like the insect;
So simple, yet so hard to appease.
And they are like the virus,
So simple, yet so hard to appease.

And I am your equal
And opposite reaction,
So feel this second skin.
And they are like the insect,
And they are like the insect,
So feel this second skin,
So feel this second skin.

Like an ape, like a child, like a king, like a dog,
Like an ape, like a child, like a king, like a dog,
Like a child, like an ape, like a king.

If I can't win,
If I can't win,
If I can't win,
If I can't win,
If I can't win,

And you, you should be smiling,
This is evolution's finest hour.
One step back would be on the forward,
And into the wayward out.

And you, you should be smiling,
This is evolution's finest hour.
One step back would be on the forward,
And into the wayward out.

Canadian geese
military formation
when will you return?

I'm not sure who wrote this. I came across it while researching New Criticism and, after reading the analysis of the poem, fell in love with it:

The Architects

But, as you'd expect, they are very
Impatient, the buildings, having much in them
Of the heavy surf of the North Sea, flurrying
The grit, lifting the pebbles, flinging them
With a hoarse roar against the aggregate

They are composed of — the cliffs higher of course,
More burdensome, underwritten as
It were with past days overcast
And glinting, obdurate, part of the
Silicate of tough lives, distant and intricate

As the whirring bureaucrats let in
And settled with coffee in the concrete pallets,
Awaiting the post and the department meeting —
Except that these do not know it, at least do not
Seem to, being busy, generally.

So perhaps it is only on those cloudless, almost
Vacuumed afternoons with tier upon tier
Of concrete like rib-bones packed above them,
And they lightheaded with the blue airiness
Spinning around, and muzzy, a neuralgia

Calling at random like frail relations, a phone
Ringing in a distant office they cannot get to,
That they become attentive, or we do — these
Divisions persisting, indeed what we talk about,
We, constructing these webs of buildings which,

Caulked like great whales about us, are always
Aware that some trick of the light or weather
Will dress them as friends, pleading and flailing -
And fill with placid but unbearable melodies
Us in deep hinterlands of incurved glass.

IN A STATION OF THE METRO
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Ezra Loomis Pound