Pendulum blade swinging down
closer and closer to my sweating brow.
Sharp like flint and flashing bright,
with each pass it blocks the light.
A light from the sun I need and have loved for so long,
A light from the sun I cry for until every waking dawn.
This pendulum swings faster and quicker with each cross of mine eyes
each second is an exponential quickening of the beat that could be my demise.
And I bleed before the blade ever touches my skin,
I bleed before the light flashes on my quivering face again.
I think I should bleed for eternity just to begin to soothe my guilt and my lovely sun's pain.
I think I should be so lucky to burn up in the atmosphere of this perfect being's oblique plane
But that blade keeps coming down.
With Sounds of death all around.
Screams from a world I cant see echo off the walls
haunting my seconds like an wraith angry with natural laws.
I know the bell tolls for me and the immature goblin that comes out to protect.
I can see that all is gone that I used to know; but its okay because there is clear context.
I dream of trains that whisk me away to dance in fields of amber beneath a sky so blue.
I dream of faceless saviors to pull me from my dungeon and bathe me in the illume of my love so true.
I dream, I dream, I dream, and dream some more of how it was long ago.
Anything to keep me from thinking about the blade soon to slice my frontal lobe.
These dreams haunt more than soothe my pale body yearning for the bright nourishing flames of her fireflies.
For my sun is now a white dwarf, burnt up and unable and unwilling to cast its light to my hungry hazel eyes
.
I miss her so much: my nebula of eons familiar I dream.
And as the pendulum blade slices through my brain I scream.
The end is here, and I should have done so so so much more.
THE END is here, and I all have to show is a lifetime of sadness and of remorse
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Monday, March 22, 2010
mendicant
Sad blind men
on piss soaked corners
plead for honey, money and ale.
Feel my smell,
the diminutive yell,
hoping for sympathy in visual detail.
Fell, i did.
Fall, I will without understanding why.
Falling
into the detriment of contempt for
those who REALLY need help.
So easy.
But feel the light growing in you,
in your actions.
And know
know
once these trials of compassion
turn to joyous vacations
from the soul venom of parsimoniousness,
then the world is at your
fingahtips.
on piss soaked corners
plead for honey, money and ale.
Feel my smell,
the diminutive yell,
hoping for sympathy in visual detail.
Fell, i did.
Fall, I will without understanding why.
Falling
into the detriment of contempt for
those who REALLY need help.
So easy.
But feel the light growing in you,
in your actions.
And know
know
once these trials of compassion
turn to joyous vacations
from the soul venom of parsimoniousness,
then the world is at your
fingahtips.
San Francisco, San Francisco
You seem, even in this new stage, to me,
to be a beautiful troll
with a case of the clap and an
irreplaceable groove of
melancholic masks rotating through a gyroscope of energy
that is high, but clean too.
Philosophical lenses that roll in like a southern, summer rain, running at the horizon
with intent direction, are inspired by a hand that seems divine.
The beauty of this shit-stained rose lurks behind, in front, all around in the shadows, and its beauty is haunted.
The voices of dancing marrionets from another time reverberate off the polished marble
building of old near the gray ghost lit up at night from the ancient titaness phoebe's hand in eternity.
These visions are pervasive under her aura, and her wonderland of vile, poetic love expressed in dark alleys and low lit rooms inspires in me and ability to appreciate
all the splendor of the night and her ghastly minions.
I must shake the old ideas of conformity, ie lust, jealousy, complacency, passivity, in order to experience an energy of 1,000,000,000,000 watts that is teeming beneath my feet.
to be a beautiful troll
with a case of the clap and an
irreplaceable groove of
melancholic masks rotating through a gyroscope of energy
that is high, but clean too.
Philosophical lenses that roll in like a southern, summer rain, running at the horizon
with intent direction, are inspired by a hand that seems divine.
The beauty of this shit-stained rose lurks behind, in front, all around in the shadows, and its beauty is haunted.
The voices of dancing marrionets from another time reverberate off the polished marble
building of old near the gray ghost lit up at night from the ancient titaness phoebe's hand in eternity.
These visions are pervasive under her aura, and her wonderland of vile, poetic love expressed in dark alleys and low lit rooms inspires in me and ability to appreciate
all the splendor of the night and her ghastly minions.
I must shake the old ideas of conformity, ie lust, jealousy, complacency, passivity, in order to experience an energy of 1,000,000,000,000 watts that is teeming beneath my feet.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I write my poems for who to see?
No one sees them but me.
Dreams written in a seam.
Heavy and bad like cream.
No one sees but my tree,
lookin in on me.
I wish they could make me free.
But what is free to be?
An American with a 40inch TV?
Unfettered access to the sea?
Nope, just the realization im no more important than a
flea.
No one sees them but me.
Dreams written in a seam.
Heavy and bad like cream.
No one sees but my tree,
lookin in on me.
I wish they could make me free.
But what is free to be?
An American with a 40inch TV?
Unfettered access to the sea?
Nope, just the realization im no more important than a
flea.
signs of life
that sprout through
death
are what inspires me.
Signs of life
that arent really signs,
but, rather,
the sparrow in my chest
singing in unison
with the fog horns.
These are what pangs my soul.
Sheer uselessness.
Lucid daydreams.
Painful talks.
Heavy uninterested eyes.
Everything is such a chore.
What is the use if it is unenjoyable?
I feel the lead blanket of the
sky weighing on my brain,
but i sleep and drink.
These distract in the meantime.
But that is all there is, isnt there?
The meantime.
The meantime.
The meantime.
Distracting yourself in the Meantime.
Time is what we dont have,
thus signifying its
supposed importance.
But what is time to an astronaut?
The meantime.
Same old thing in the Meantime.
So honest.
All time is Mean.
the meantime.
that sprout through
death
are what inspires me.
Signs of life
that arent really signs,
but, rather,
the sparrow in my chest
singing in unison
with the fog horns.
These are what pangs my soul.
Sheer uselessness.
Lucid daydreams.
Painful talks.
Heavy uninterested eyes.
Everything is such a chore.
What is the use if it is unenjoyable?
I feel the lead blanket of the
sky weighing on my brain,
but i sleep and drink.
These distract in the meantime.
But that is all there is, isnt there?
The meantime.
The meantime.
The meantime.
Distracting yourself in the Meantime.
Time is what we dont have,
thus signifying its
supposed importance.
But what is time to an astronaut?
The meantime.
Same old thing in the Meantime.
So honest.
All time is Mean.
the meantime.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
flash of a neon light.
fear roams the rooms of this hollow dream
of which i stare into, ignoring the seam.
the stitches laugh in voices unknown,
tenors and baritones of the earth below.
I walk the line between the two: dream and earth.
my visions cloud the sky with a pulsating silence
and the light
touches
the horizon
where the clouds share death with rain
and bleed
into the silent well.
The echoes of memories ripples the ocean,
flows like mountains of nothing
until touching The door.
Signs lead the way,
but death is in the wake
of silence.
and life follows the thought;
the muse's touch;
the lightning eyes-
filled with music from the cloud God
i believe in.....
but..
also created.
How does meaning grow from cobblestone eyes?
Late at night, who whispers in the ears of the air?
Why would the Great One ask for passiveness?
Why not growl the thunder?
Why not touch ants with the prophet of darkness?
Why the promise of pain?
Naked light's voices roam the yard
haunting and
screaming
words of derision.
But silence is all that cools the grass here.
Forever.
Just voices no one shares.
No one can touch.
NO.
of which i stare into, ignoring the seam.
the stitches laugh in voices unknown,
tenors and baritones of the earth below.
I walk the line between the two: dream and earth.
my visions cloud the sky with a pulsating silence
and the light
touches
the horizon
where the clouds share death with rain
and bleed
into the silent well.
The echoes of memories ripples the ocean,
flows like mountains of nothing
until touching The door.
Signs lead the way,
but death is in the wake
of silence.
and life follows the thought;
the muse's touch;
the lightning eyes-
filled with music from the cloud God
i believe in.....
but..
also created.
How does meaning grow from cobblestone eyes?
Late at night, who whispers in the ears of the air?
Why would the Great One ask for passiveness?
Why not growl the thunder?
Why not touch ants with the prophet of darkness?
Why the promise of pain?
Naked light's voices roam the yard
haunting and
screaming
words of derision.
But silence is all that cools the grass here.
Forever.
Just voices no one shares.
No one can touch.
NO.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Success
twittering sighs
whispering flies
the new mantra is
"buy"
cant help but stare
all this was so rare
when we valued "share"
instead of designer
"flair."
we lament our woes
as new, daunting foes
but from history's shadows
is where they
grow.
consumerism's rampant orthodox,
as infectious as chicken pox,
buys up junk, leaving nothing...
but our children in neck and arm
stocks.
Grow the pie is our game,
but not enough we complain.
So exponential debt swallowing
keeps us
"sane"
And bitchin that, relatively, times are worse
since Carnegie's reign,
well,
that's this generations only claim to fame.
"Success is in drought or has fled" or
"the American dream is dead."
This is America's new green eyed dread.
No more disputes of destiny about which we have read,
just small men bickering over who gets the bigger bed.
"Success" is a relative state
born of non quantifiable
echoes.
Alger never saw the "dream"
defined by material gained through
schemes-
in the form of tv screens
or gold plated limousines.
The "dream" is alive and well,
still yelling like crazy old Zell.
but how then is our debt doubled with each
day's clanging bell?
Is the money gone, or the spirit dead?
Was our wealth a mirage, born in the red?
Previous generations bode well,
but what in us makes the future a hollow shell?
Baby, Its that thirst for more.
Keeping up with the Jones's is the
score.
Back and
forth.
"Honey, call the neighbor and tell him about the new
Porsche."
Our parents Dream was to own a home;
support themselves by working to the bone;
saving to send their kids to college without a loan;
all their satisfaction stole from self reliance's dome.
This is the dream, breathing and living.
THAT pie is still lurching forward- always giving.
And while the average citizen yells "corporate fraud"
he puts his 20 dollar lunch on a near maxed out
credit card.
This mentality is not a class trait, but a cultural
mistake.
Spending money we don't have,
well,
that is the New American Way.
We have created the Napoleon class,
you and
I.
Whether
in a mansion,
or a double wide,
we are greedy by the masses;
our defining characteristic: Crassness.
And we blame only the "others" for our pains....
Derrida would be proud of his theory laid plain.
What a fucking joke, to outsiders it should seem we are insane.
But to which outsiders? Modern Capitalism has made us all the same.
whispering flies
the new mantra is
"buy"
cant help but stare
all this was so rare
when we valued "share"
instead of designer
"flair."
we lament our woes
as new, daunting foes
but from history's shadows
is where they
grow.
consumerism's rampant orthodox,
as infectious as chicken pox,
buys up junk, leaving nothing...
but our children in neck and arm
stocks.
Grow the pie is our game,
but not enough we complain.
So exponential debt swallowing
keeps us
"sane"
And bitchin that, relatively, times are worse
since Carnegie's reign,
well,
that's this generations only claim to fame.
"Success is in drought or has fled" or
"the American dream is dead."
This is America's new green eyed dread.
No more disputes of destiny about which we have read,
just small men bickering over who gets the bigger bed.
"Success" is a relative state
born of non quantifiable
echoes.
Alger never saw the "dream"
defined by material gained through
schemes-
in the form of tv screens
or gold plated limousines.
The "dream" is alive and well,
still yelling like crazy old Zell.
but how then is our debt doubled with each
day's clanging bell?
Is the money gone, or the spirit dead?
Was our wealth a mirage, born in the red?
Previous generations bode well,
but what in us makes the future a hollow shell?
Baby, Its that thirst for more.
Keeping up with the Jones's is the
score.
Back and
forth.
"Honey, call the neighbor and tell him about the new
Porsche."
Our parents Dream was to own a home;
support themselves by working to the bone;
saving to send their kids to college without a loan;
all their satisfaction stole from self reliance's dome.
This is the dream, breathing and living.
THAT pie is still lurching forward- always giving.
And while the average citizen yells "corporate fraud"
he puts his 20 dollar lunch on a near maxed out
credit card.
This mentality is not a class trait, but a cultural
mistake.
Spending money we don't have,
well,
that is the New American Way.
We have created the Napoleon class,
you and
I.
Whether
in a mansion,
or a double wide,
we are greedy by the masses;
our defining characteristic: Crassness.
And we blame only the "others" for our pains....
Derrida would be proud of his theory laid plain.
What a fucking joke, to outsiders it should seem we are insane.
But to which outsiders? Modern Capitalism has made us all the same.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Nostalgia
'tis my ethos
and my business
model.
but even with knowing you
and all
you
do
its difficult for my
grimy
window to the
world
to clarify
my dancing
nerve ends
tempo,
their song.
So i stare at
a the distorted mirrors
of time
and imagine
nirvana
in the human form
of a
syringe,
but sometimes,
when insulted by my
new chia pet,
i get real,
actual,
glimses of the dank
sunlight
through those
old, old,
clouds.
I smile
at these honest
hallucinations,
for i know they
are real
like Deepthroat was,
like the Jackal
was.
One might think
despair
is next,
but turning pages
is like
losing that favorite
passifier.
Sad,
but inevitable...
'tis my ethos
and my business
model.
but even with knowing you
and all
you
do
its difficult for my
grimy
window to the
world
to clarify
my dancing
nerve ends
tempo,
their song.
So i stare at
a the distorted mirrors
of time
and imagine
nirvana
in the human form
of a
syringe,
but sometimes,
when insulted by my
new chia pet,
i get real,
actual,
glimses of the dank
sunlight
through those
old, old,
clouds.
I smile
at these honest
hallucinations,
for i know they
are real
like Deepthroat was,
like the Jackal
was.
One might think
despair
is next,
but turning pages
is like
losing that favorite
passifier.
Sad,
but inevitable...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
????
pain ridden eyes,
tear streaked thighs
pulsing for a
goodbye
are the life
of
strife.
But
what?
You expect me
to hide,
to not ride,
to side
with a
unglorious,
uneventful,
non- engagement?
I still dont know what your word-
safe-
meant.
Bent,
am i?
Sureptitiously draped
with morsels-
pics of
crepes- and
drapes
hide
ubiquitous
snakes
who want
my skin,
my breath,
Its their life
through my
death.
But fear not
and kneel high
to chance and the
sky,
for they alone
cry
dry
tears,
and leave
scars,
delicious scars,
that haunt for years
leaving no memory
of original fears,
but DO leave
the residue
of self-
assurance.
tear streaked thighs
pulsing for a
goodbye
are the life
of
strife.
But
what?
You expect me
to hide,
to not ride,
to side
with a
unglorious,
uneventful,
non- engagement?
I still dont know what your word-
safe-
meant.
Bent,
am i?
Sureptitiously draped
with morsels-
pics of
crepes- and
drapes
hide
ubiquitous
snakes
who want
my skin,
my breath,
Its their life
through my
death.
But fear not
and kneel high
to chance and the
sky,
for they alone
cry
dry
tears,
and leave
scars,
delicious scars,
that haunt for years
leaving no memory
of original fears,
but DO leave
the residue
of self-
assurance.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Masochistic, Baby..that why
Esphixiation is so nice
When lying here in mee garden.
The strangling limbs
Of this beautiful, blooming rosebush
Are just as deadly
And ominous
To me
As overdose is
To the
dear
junkie.
A fist that
Grips
For
Life,
That grips for
A slow,
Nice,
Death,
Will
Hold the suns rays
In an incandescent
Hearn,
Which it saves for future dinner parties,
Of course….
I grind and bash and mash
Stained glass into powder
To flavor my lamb,
To sweeten my cake,
And then I relax
And enjoy the blood flavored
Spittle.
I have always been a little self-destructive
I bellow to the unsuspecting sky.
While
Admiring the shape of a mortar shell,
I attended a peace rally
And was thrown out on my
Ass-
The ungrateful bastards!!!!
Don’t they know that without
My appreciation of death,
There are no hippies
Or peace rallies……..
They just don’t know
How
To appreciate
It all at once,
It all for what it is,
it from both sides of the spectrum,
it as a sad, happy, daunting, exuberant…..
experience.
‘cause that’s all it is, really-
An experience I choose to experiment with-
And I choose ignorance of the ignorant,
Abstinence from acquiescence,
Absence from the domicile
Of
Obligatory love,
Faux love,
perpetually abstaining
from
the engagement.
Don’t get mad,
Don’t talk about it,
Play the normalcy game,
Play the ice game,
Own the reality game,
But never buy a club
Membership again.
I wont be pious….
But I will say
Preconceived notions
And established normalcy
Will
Lead to that most
un needed of
emotions-
Guilt.
When lying here in mee garden.
The strangling limbs
Of this beautiful, blooming rosebush
Are just as deadly
And ominous
To me
As overdose is
To the
dear
junkie.
A fist that
Grips
For
Life,
That grips for
A slow,
Nice,
Death,
Will
Hold the suns rays
In an incandescent
Hearn,
Which it saves for future dinner parties,
Of course….
I grind and bash and mash
Stained glass into powder
To flavor my lamb,
To sweeten my cake,
And then I relax
And enjoy the blood flavored
Spittle.
I have always been a little self-destructive
I bellow to the unsuspecting sky.
While
Admiring the shape of a mortar shell,
I attended a peace rally
And was thrown out on my
Ass-
The ungrateful bastards!!!!
Don’t they know that without
My appreciation of death,
There are no hippies
Or peace rallies……..
They just don’t know
How
To appreciate
It all at once,
It all for what it is,
it from both sides of the spectrum,
it as a sad, happy, daunting, exuberant…..
experience.
‘cause that’s all it is, really-
An experience I choose to experiment with-
And I choose ignorance of the ignorant,
Abstinence from acquiescence,
Absence from the domicile
Of
Obligatory love,
Faux love,
perpetually abstaining
from
the engagement.
Don’t get mad,
Don’t talk about it,
Play the normalcy game,
Play the ice game,
Own the reality game,
But never buy a club
Membership again.
I wont be pious….
But I will say
Preconceived notions
And established normalcy
Will
Lead to that most
un needed of
emotions-
Guilt.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
everything you pushed
everything you faked with passion
all this is too much
too much to understand
too much to re-experience
too much to love you
again
bloodfilled ditches of the mind
see intuition negligence at fault.
I know so much more than you think i do.
I see
I see it all.
How could i not?
I see this experience as whole
it was finished a long time
ago
and to examine your streamlined actions
is beyond my capabilities for
treachery.
So what?
So where?
So who?
no-one is exempt from benevolent lying.
Why?
Why would you push for your nightmare?
Why would you tease my hands with
visions of mannah from circulonimbi?
What was the point of this?
All the truths that guide:
they blind,
worthless.
I gave you the keys,
even the back door's,
but you didnt really want it.
pretended to
No more illusions
or delusions
only cold-hearted logic
with a splash of Gin
and machoistic
exploitations
everything you faked with passion
all this is too much
too much to understand
too much to re-experience
too much to love you
again
bloodfilled ditches of the mind
see intuition negligence at fault.
I know so much more than you think i do.
I see
I see it all.
How could i not?
I see this experience as whole
it was finished a long time
ago
and to examine your streamlined actions
is beyond my capabilities for
treachery.
So what?
So where?
So who?
no-one is exempt from benevolent lying.
Why?
Why would you push for your nightmare?
Why would you tease my hands with
visions of mannah from circulonimbi?
What was the point of this?
All the truths that guide:
they blind,
worthless.
I gave you the keys,
even the back door's,
but you didnt really want it.
pretended to
No more illusions
or delusions
only cold-hearted logic
with a splash of Gin
and machoistic
exploitations
I feel Sanziband reaching up from the Dead Sea.
It doesnt feel dead right now.
It feels an awful lot like me.
A me i pretend i dont see.
A me i lock out with bolts and dreams and parthenon seams.
I feel death as real now as the day of my birth
The mistress reminds me my old commitments come first.
Clutching a golden fleece with no lining, i know my life is cursed.
Cursed with a gift; I know of my siblings i will take that ice bath swim the worst.
Life just becomes dull when you know whats coming
Standing in dark hallways, i can see the fat lady drumming.
and i spend my solitude like cheap pennies while running.
Running from the bottle, the point, the sniff, but something
has given me peace; i have given up on my cunning
So, back to the bottle it is for I
I will be floatin down a road headed to the sky
waiting for peace and a release to become candy for my eyes.
Time to make things happen again, and i will have to burn others like lye.
It doesnt feel dead right now.
It feels an awful lot like me.
A me i pretend i dont see.
A me i lock out with bolts and dreams and parthenon seams.
I feel death as real now as the day of my birth
The mistress reminds me my old commitments come first.
Clutching a golden fleece with no lining, i know my life is cursed.
Cursed with a gift; I know of my siblings i will take that ice bath swim the worst.
Life just becomes dull when you know whats coming
Standing in dark hallways, i can see the fat lady drumming.
and i spend my solitude like cheap pennies while running.
Running from the bottle, the point, the sniff, but something
has given me peace; i have given up on my cunning
So, back to the bottle it is for I
I will be floatin down a road headed to the sky
waiting for peace and a release to become candy for my eyes.
Time to make things happen again, and i will have to burn others like lye.
heavy handed figures in the shadows
beckon my untame game,
the cocaine in my vein,
the grit in my name,
the acid in my rain,
and the violence in my brain.
They look on disinterested
results are not sine qua none
for their happiness.
No.
They simply want the ride.
Their fingers dipped in the
hourglass without opening
their eyes.
But discussing Job
and why I should be like him
permeates the frozen air
from their forked tongues.
I dont know where this life goes,
where the masters say it shows
what it is for that we overdose
and watch the black blood
flow from a nose.
I know now.
Fleeting passions are the sun,
the moon,
oxygen.
Holding on to truth
will teach you
that there is none,
and has never been.
Fuck what you think is right.
There is no right or wrong.
There is only what you do or dont do.
What you want is what matters.
Motion is deceptive, and
will make you think
it has meaning, but
it doesnt.
Take all
Rape all
Fuck all
You are Lono.
Be the change indeed?
Fuck that.
Abstain
Abstain
Abstain
and love art.
Those are the two
the only
two.
beckon my untame game,
the cocaine in my vein,
the grit in my name,
the acid in my rain,
and the violence in my brain.
They look on disinterested
results are not sine qua none
for their happiness.
No.
They simply want the ride.
Their fingers dipped in the
hourglass without opening
their eyes.
But discussing Job
and why I should be like him
permeates the frozen air
from their forked tongues.
I dont know where this life goes,
where the masters say it shows
what it is for that we overdose
and watch the black blood
flow from a nose.
I know now.
Fleeting passions are the sun,
the moon,
oxygen.
Holding on to truth
will teach you
that there is none,
and has never been.
Fuck what you think is right.
There is no right or wrong.
There is only what you do or dont do.
What you want is what matters.
Motion is deceptive, and
will make you think
it has meaning, but
it doesnt.
Take all
Rape all
Fuck all
You are Lono.
Be the change indeed?
Fuck that.
Abstain
Abstain
Abstain
and love art.
Those are the two
the only
two.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
l;kajsdfl;kjasfd
You want this?
I want this?
all so unclear.....
I knew oceans of blood would be the path,
but i never saw the aerial bombardment coming.
And forests of pleomorphic foliage are
all i see- why? why? why?
Placitory palavering is always this foam,
this worthless fucking foam,
but i sleep in it.
Its in the veins of my neck and the marrow in
my bones.
Loquaciousness is not my way,
but for me to achieve the plenal state,
you must understand this jet plane
is tabescent.
Can't sincerity abound?
I've nothing but an empty soul and
a yearning.
hunger.
for reciprocated benevolence.
That is what matters now.
I love you, but i feel Danu.
fearing The Lost Pleiad.
I want this?
all so unclear.....
I knew oceans of blood would be the path,
but i never saw the aerial bombardment coming.
And forests of pleomorphic foliage are
all i see- why? why? why?
Placitory palavering is always this foam,
this worthless fucking foam,
but i sleep in it.
Its in the veins of my neck and the marrow in
my bones.
Loquaciousness is not my way,
but for me to achieve the plenal state,
you must understand this jet plane
is tabescent.
Can't sincerity abound?
I've nothing but an empty soul and
a yearning.
hunger.
for reciprocated benevolence.
That is what matters now.
I love you, but i feel Danu.
fearing The Lost Pleiad.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Resentment
Coming in fast like an arrow
I can hear it from far away
but where doth original emnity lie???
You know, Mrs. Merlin, dont you?
You predict the unknown with
all the confidence of an
aardvark rube.
But, what is this??
It was here the whole time.
Resting in my heart, waiting
to pounce
on....
an inflated sense of insight.
Soo.......here it is......
I give it freely without a heads up.
A present some deserve more than jewels.....
Let this be a lesson...to
predicting the future, lying benevolently,
and unconscious manipulation,
for blind naivety can still sin against
my nature.
And insulting my intelligence...well...
unforgivable..
even if done unknowingly.
No More Obsequiousness, No More Love.
Only a black hole left,
where once lived a dove......
I think this captures it.
fucking bitches man...
I can hear it from far away
but where doth original emnity lie???
You know, Mrs. Merlin, dont you?
You predict the unknown with
all the confidence of an
aardvark rube.
But, what is this??
It was here the whole time.
Resting in my heart, waiting
to pounce
on....
an inflated sense of insight.
Soo.......here it is......
I give it freely without a heads up.
A present some deserve more than jewels.....
Let this be a lesson...to
predicting the future, lying benevolently,
and unconscious manipulation,
for blind naivety can still sin against
my nature.
And insulting my intelligence...well...
unforgivable..
even if done unknowingly.
No More Obsequiousness, No More Love.
Only a black hole left,
where once lived a dove......
I think this captures it.
fucking bitches man...
a few random thoughts
Hug the live wire and appreciate
a jolt of gloom to be
your controoling mind's ego
exerting its obsession
over you.
a jolt of gloom to be
your controoling mind's ego
exerting its obsession
over you.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
iceus
broken ice so much is like us
melting away slowly in the serenity
of salinity
us is failing to stay afloat now
and growing smaller by the day
us will be no more soon
the sea ice is so
seasonal
a circle
of liquid
and solid
governed by the sun cycles, always knowing
the ice reforms
soon enough
but us is not so fortunate
now melted completely
melting away slowly in the serenity
of salinity
us is failing to stay afloat now
and growing smaller by the day
us will be no more soon
the sea ice is so
seasonal
a circle
of liquid
and solid
governed by the sun cycles, always knowing
the ice reforms
soon enough
but us is not so fortunate
now melted completely
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