Oct 2014
I know that its not right to force it because its not natural or pure, the soil is poor, there’s a flaw, no flow, no place for it to go, led down a Cul-de-sac, off the beaten track to a sterile wilderness where there’s only the mundane, eating *******, talking, working, walking, friends faces, names, places and facts.
Dry dusty facts, set in their mould, old facts, cold facts, aging hard, ready to crack and dissolve, slipping and draining away to the darker recesses that you've forgotten how to reach, or try only to find the minds too numb and bruised, too weary, abused and overused. Like the endless capillaries have gradually retreated from being mistreated, you know that they won’t re-grow and its accepted and its just another fact setting slowly in the mould until
SNAP!
You remember the name, the aim of the game, the shadows and stains the voices you retain in the dark recesses of the brain and its re-shelved in a safer place nearer the surface, grinding other facts into dust, now a few inches high, thick enough to stand on top of it, loose so that snaps of conversation and chilling grains that catch in your throat and make you choke and cold all over and weak at the knees are carried on the erratic breeze that whistles between the plural mes,
Sometimes linear, progressing down a straight path, so direct that from A, Z can be seen and processed leaving the remaining 24 letters unnecessary circumlocution, sometimes ignored or stored to be thought again when bored, recycled, implying a mind of finite possibilities…yes, It is futile to exist, reminisce, kiss or think or resist the bland uniformity of experience: to stand out, shout, or doubt, think or drink or stagger, swagger or to conjure grand statements that somehow draw ultimate and above all illusionary conclusions about everything that are eyes aren’t designed to find; cos our bodies, too small for our minds are only built for the daily grind.
Round bricks that don’t fit our square shaped holes, objects too weighty for our inky fingers to lift and label and store away with the other facts, to rot until eventually freed, returning to a primary state of non-existence. Add Rhyme :lime, time, Thyme, mime, I’m, Grime, Chime, Chyme, then Simon Says add some clever mechanical clockwork metrical structures whilst speaking insightfully about abstract concepts in a witty and above all IMPRESSIVE manner. On your marks…
Dry dusty facts, set in their mould, old facts, cold facts, aging hard, ready to crack and dissolve, slipping and draining away to the darker recesses that you've forgotten how to reach, or try only to find the minds too numb and bruised, too weary, abused and overused. Like the endless capillaries have gradually retreated from being mistreated, you know that they won’t re-grow and its accepted and its just another fact setting slowly in the mould until
SNAP!
You remember the name, the aim of the game, the shadows and stains the voices you retain in the dark recesses of the brain and its re-shelved in a safer place nearer the surface, grinding other facts into dust, now a few inches high, thick enough to stand on top of it, loose so that snaps of conversation and chilling grains that catch in your throat and make you choke and cold all over and weak at the knees are carried on the erratic breeze that whistles between the plural mes,
Sometimes linear, progressing down a straight path, so direct that from A, Z can be seen and processed leaving the remaining 24 letters unnecessary circumlocution, sometimes ignored or stored to be thought again when bored, recycled, implying a mind of finite possibilities…yes, It is futile to exist, reminisce, kiss or think or resist the bland uniformity of experience: to stand out, shout, or doubt, think or drink or stagger, swagger or to conjure grand statements that somehow draw ultimate and above all illusionary conclusions about everything that are eyes aren’t designed to find; cos our bodies, too small for our minds are only built for the daily grind.
Round bricks that don’t fit our square shaped holes, objects too weighty for our inky fingers to lift and label and store away with the other facts, to rot until eventually freed, returning to a primary state of non-existence. Add Rhyme :lime, time, Thyme, mime, I’m, Grime, Chime, Chyme, then Simon Says add some clever mechanical clockwork metrical structures whilst speaking insightfully about abstract concepts in a witty and above all IMPRESSIVE manner. On your marks…
