The mirroring motor man reminds me of when I placed my mind in a raffle for the highest bid of sanity and control (driven like his bike)
Words splintered on the heart:
Grandmother, I'm breaking the chain.
The light bursted through your open eyes at death.
There you were swallowed with ferocity by the sun from which you danced and plotted in the night, as a cat hunts with the risen moon.
Light, despised in terror.
The light seeps through my pores, and I will not be cold. Horrors confronted, abolished.
Let me not
Here I am! Standing, walking, moving
Forward, forward, forward
Your gift; it was not in vain
You have come to me as a Christ
Embodied as a boy who has shared a portion of blood and tender empathy;
You have healed me when I did not ask
And I shall not spill a droplet of my own anymore;
For my blood is your blood
And to love myself is to love you
Let me not
Spirit, give forth or sleep, for this lukewarm life is the coldest of deaths.
Tattered painter's whites;
The torn paper of a hand-rolled cigarette;
These are the possessions which should rip me up along with them
Yet, it's lessened the grip
In fact, I don't feel much;
Save the relief of living in discomfort, which always beats the discomfort of living in dysfunction
Especially when you know the dysfunction is rolled into function by your own hand
By the very same hand which rolled that broken smoke;
Yes, it's better to mess up your own ingestion than to infest the pleasantries of cleansing incandescence.
So 'fess up when you set yourself up
And don't set the rest up with bad luck
It doesn't take too long to figure out your mess-ups.
After just a few seconds, I inspect; finding rest in the resonance behind this lesson which is not less-than.
Let's then shape this paper back together,
And together find the shape that could never be painted on tattered white paper
It is void now.
Ashes to ashes, for dirt was meant to tarry.
Not with a purpose, but because it found something pointless to help **** the boredom. Still, better than some hobbies.
Scrupulosity, the prison in the sky
When I visited Pop there he showed me how to take a long hit of Hell smoke.
16 days catatonic.
It was enough for me.
But Pop, he got too
Hospitalized for a revelation of the second death after worshiping televangelists in solitary.
The Serpentine Christ loves those with money.
Forgive him Father, for he knows not that
he earned his severance in my mother's womb
(7 bank accounts)
Shine it up good and spend it all up at the right time.
Pop is broke now.
(all is vanity beneath the sun)
Despise it, for it is but a
I (am your reincarnation) love you, grandmother, the reprobate (the compulsions I will always wage war with)
One link, I will break the chain.