the behemmoth distracted misanthropic lens falls wayside for a moment, i saw you beautiful in frail light as it dimmed to a dullards thoughts again, you could never catch that distracted wandering thought, never put your finger on the distant far cornered cry, bewildered you wept for it, still a blind beggar in a land of evil seers. one morning you awoke unshackled and having a drunkards clarity you spoke, but you spoke too soon, no one heard you and no one cared.

feels like trains whistles and that old stink of forgotten byways, sometimes it itches. sticks in your teeth and takes up residense, peculier needs, we laugh, though we know truth, how it irks and twindles. finds euphonisms and weepy sleeps, murky bound delusion, disillusioned quandary, early morning waifs, always abundantly clear.gotta get home., as the parlance goes';'to mine"

the year was 20 11, and there was pretty angst, it floated and lingered in the air like cigarette smoke in the winter, of course we ignored its insistence, still the rumbling was amongst the least of the peculiars. i said, momentarily it stopped as easy as it had become, i wrenched, things were not changhing hands. we faltered again into obedience.

i doubt the impossibilty of attention, words fall thru the cracks of easiness, and melt in the thighs of lack luster gorgeous caverns.

time. is on my side. yes. it is. i have an unfortunately great recall. supose all you people are there, and you know what i know, then you scream like mongrels in outerspace, how can i absolve thee? lest we best ourselves like animals, i will not record the absolute strife of existence, pleasant though, the valleys stalk, the familar ground is weak, how can it be so  miscontrived and willingly wrong? tangent. tangerines? i hope that maybe i am not speaking alone. or you are ******* hair, and thinking of me.

To blame her all would be a lie. As I spit blood back into this cup that is mine. Dispelled countenance swells discord amongst the woven machina.

The folly of youth and time wasted. How I would run down the halls of my past and bleed the corpses of yesterday. A chance to feel pure once again, thou I never did at all. We waste the present with abandon and never consider the challenge of tomorrow, until it's far to late. Still there are flowers that bloom, women that wither, and people that take themselves to hell screaming the woes of beauty found in a self imposed mediocrity. ~a.c.