Mar 2012
On the night that was the 2nd of a month not like the last but the same as the others of the time that had come before it, lay nothing but a blank pamphlet written with nothing underneath it; the ink gone dry, the quill white as pearls, an imagination dried up like the desert outside the writer’s window. Gone were the wings of imagined angels, gone was the snow that had melted with Spring, and gone were the mysteries that had once had filled life to the absolute brim. Oh treachery, wicked naked sin – clad in nothing – you smear your own ways on the trials of the women that surround me. For I take your ways and spread them around like a deck of cards; my voice has grown weary and my mind has grown numb to how many you have demolished in your own wicked ways; goodnight to you and I must say a praise to you because you – as I have seen it – have won every single one.
In present form we wake for no one, for we are the eyes and ears of the present past; and how soon we lack to recognize what we never knew we had lost! But praise the naked green hills of dream spent in natural reality! There, on the forefront of challenges never thought imagined, rest the eyes of a man captured by the images of a mere camera! A challenge to the human eye! A man to the machine! A warning for the future!
When the voice becomes nothing but a whisper through the cracks of ****** rocks and the child with eye who doth not wink smiles at the death of their own parents, then, ONLY THEN, does the soft trickle of the tear of the angel clad in nothing but gold and blasphemy, there doth they rest for only the human eye to see who pleases only themselves in the fields with their crops and their small amounts of money and bootleg whiskey.
Empty stomach full of acid that prays on the weak of mind who crosses off the only thing they know is the thing they praise forever! Naked night! Laid wide open on the pine needles of angels wings with velvet for lips and pages of the best of the best for their toilet paper; nigh here I say you are the one I tell only to the one's that I truly love, for the secret in your eye is as fair as the oceans breeze at midnight, where no man can hear or see or even be - unless they wish death upon their physical self - for you are everything that the light encompasses and the snow makes their chill and the ocean doth make their wave, the way you sway with everything, but never asking themselves to obey. If I had quill and ink I would be the mad man and if I had typewriter I would be the noisy man, but since I am nothing but a man on plastic silent key, I am every man, I am you, I am I, I am him and her and she and him and queen and king, we are all the same when it doth get this close, unless the mind is the one true separator.
Where the dust settles and the gold nettles starts to rest on your door step near your bedroom where the boredom smells of dull virginity and lack of serenity, and every single mingle you've been invited to is something you read and cited too, then there you wish you were young with the way you were so tame, and instead of the life you knew becomes apart of you and the game you said was the same you saw the later day, and Oh can't you see that this repetition is just another way to make you go see your own aunt and uncle and Old' lady Jane?
With all the toilers on their tug boats of mismatched love, that swears that they were once the right one, for you and you only when you were high neck in the seas of Brazil, with a naked patch and an eye full of skill, circled with a smile while all the while your mind was away from you, full up with smoke that you never puffed though you already said that it was enough, and in the night you walked from corn stalk to stalk, not looking for that much talk, a place to rest the bottom rock so the mock of the crowd wouldn't keep you down and try to steal your stock.
She then rests willfully beneath God's own light, arched back, her chin pointed up towards His might. There she rests - for eternity or mere second - where she praises not her beauty but the way the moss grows slowly beneath her toes. Naked nettle of the pine tree falls upon her lap, as tears from her fearful face grows in a tight knot; each sky must turn gray, but soon, the gray will lift and life - pleasant for whichever eye wishes to see it so - will soon enough see it. Tangled beauty; uplifting challenge; mystery mother; sounds that sear through even the best seers minds; for where do you imagine man going if they do not know first to go to themselves for your saving? No question asked is ever answered fully; just like the snow is never fully melted - for it turns to water and then enters the rivers, the plants, the sky, and then all of man; man, Oh' dear human! What a responsibility we have...Holding such fragile beauty!
To hold, we do not; we only see what we wish to see, and when the whining knots of notes dressed in systematic "brilliance" tell us that this is us, we praise it, and say that "this", is us and for us and will forever be apart of "us". Clinging child born from a Russian way with a father's like discomfort and boredom; lost like a leaf upon a drained pond; lost like the way of the dog that never had a home; lost like the youth of where I came from; lost like the market workers that hold the same mind as the stock brokers; lost like the poets waiting for their words to mean something with purpose; lost praying in the setting sun that casts a shadow on everyone, not only the ******.
Yes. The face is brilliant tonight, the stars shine for everyone or free, and the movie stars are now just waking up or going to sleep or starting to work as we praise an image no one will forget to remember in a thousand years; naked nothing; naked word for a word, grim satisfaction for a reason to write a novel; stupid mind for a review from no one interesting, a fishing boat full of holes cast out in a sea that no one will swim upon for the waves have already been felt and drunk and swam upon; ideas ***** beneath a chapel steep; a holy trinity of oblivion.
When
One starts to see
Oneself in the sentence
With
Seams of will
Sinews of courage
Muscles of their own original self;
Know
You'll be
Home soon
In present form we wake for no one, for we are the eyes and ears of the present past; and how soon we lack to recognize what we never knew we had lost! But praise the naked green hills of dream spent in natural reality! There, on the forefront of challenges never thought imagined, rest the eyes of a man captured by the images of a mere camera! A challenge to the human eye! A man to the machine! A warning for the future!
When the voice becomes nothing but a whisper through the cracks of ****** rocks and the child with eye who doth not wink smiles at the death of their own parents, then, ONLY THEN, does the soft trickle of the tear of the angel clad in nothing but gold and blasphemy, there doth they rest for only the human eye to see who pleases only themselves in the fields with their crops and their small amounts of money and bootleg whiskey.
Empty stomach full of acid that prays on the weak of mind who crosses off the only thing they know is the thing they praise forever! Naked night! Laid wide open on the pine needles of angels wings with velvet for lips and pages of the best of the best for their toilet paper; nigh here I say you are the one I tell only to the one's that I truly love, for the secret in your eye is as fair as the oceans breeze at midnight, where no man can hear or see or even be - unless they wish death upon their physical self - for you are everything that the light encompasses and the snow makes their chill and the ocean doth make their wave, the way you sway with everything, but never asking themselves to obey. If I had quill and ink I would be the mad man and if I had typewriter I would be the noisy man, but since I am nothing but a man on plastic silent key, I am every man, I am you, I am I, I am him and her and she and him and queen and king, we are all the same when it doth get this close, unless the mind is the one true separator.
Where the dust settles and the gold nettles starts to rest on your door step near your bedroom where the boredom smells of dull virginity and lack of serenity, and every single mingle you've been invited to is something you read and cited too, then there you wish you were young with the way you were so tame, and instead of the life you knew becomes apart of you and the game you said was the same you saw the later day, and Oh can't you see that this repetition is just another way to make you go see your own aunt and uncle and Old' lady Jane?
With all the toilers on their tug boats of mismatched love, that swears that they were once the right one, for you and you only when you were high neck in the seas of Brazil, with a naked patch and an eye full of skill, circled with a smile while all the while your mind was away from you, full up with smoke that you never puffed though you already said that it was enough, and in the night you walked from corn stalk to stalk, not looking for that much talk, a place to rest the bottom rock so the mock of the crowd wouldn't keep you down and try to steal your stock.
She then rests willfully beneath God's own light, arched back, her chin pointed up towards His might. There she rests - for eternity or mere second - where she praises not her beauty but the way the moss grows slowly beneath her toes. Naked nettle of the pine tree falls upon her lap, as tears from her fearful face grows in a tight knot; each sky must turn gray, but soon, the gray will lift and life - pleasant for whichever eye wishes to see it so - will soon enough see it. Tangled beauty; uplifting challenge; mystery mother; sounds that sear through even the best seers minds; for where do you imagine man going if they do not know first to go to themselves for your saving? No question asked is ever answered fully; just like the snow is never fully melted - for it turns to water and then enters the rivers, the plants, the sky, and then all of man; man, Oh' dear human! What a responsibility we have...Holding such fragile beauty!
To hold, we do not; we only see what we wish to see, and when the whining knots of notes dressed in systematic "brilliance" tell us that this is us, we praise it, and say that "this", is us and for us and will forever be apart of "us". Clinging child born from a Russian way with a father's like discomfort and boredom; lost like a leaf upon a drained pond; lost like the way of the dog that never had a home; lost like the youth of where I came from; lost like the market workers that hold the same mind as the stock brokers; lost like the poets waiting for their words to mean something with purpose; lost praying in the setting sun that casts a shadow on everyone, not only the ******.
Yes. The face is brilliant tonight, the stars shine for everyone or free, and the movie stars are now just waking up or going to sleep or starting to work as we praise an image no one will forget to remember in a thousand years; naked nothing; naked word for a word, grim satisfaction for a reason to write a novel; stupid mind for a review from no one interesting, a fishing boat full of holes cast out in a sea that no one will swim upon for the waves have already been felt and drunk and swam upon; ideas ***** beneath a chapel steep; a holy trinity of oblivion.
When
One starts to see
Oneself in the sentence
With
Seams of will
Sinews of courage
Muscles of their own original self;
Know
You'll be
Home soon
