losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.

day is coming, rain
all the night. tears shed from high.
day is running, gone.

early morning and
we will make it fast
with the words and
training awakened
thought. of Heaven,
of Hell, of destruction
concerning elder proph-
ecies and speculations on
the existence of man for
the past couple aeons.
and prevalent forces flow
through energetic lines of
muscle mass, each a heart-
string of the wholly vessel
not yet turned carbon. and
now we repeat of prior state-
ment of I the Destroyer.
consuming of the firmament
so that the rest of the yeast
is thrown into some Darwinian
existence. (of which, I probably
eviscerated actual meaning)
consume, consume, and move
onward towards a larger chunk
of the firmament. and early mourning,
early turning on of the greater light
that is the electrical charge of
this vessel's circadian rhythm.
and moving on, moving back into
self-reticence. and i give myself,
i give myself alone. and please,
oh please, destroy me of what
i once was of a past life.

scribbling through pain of
wrist and tensed forearms
brought bettered by repetition
thru peddled death of calves
and ruined bowels of pre-
cancered prostate. constant
film of excreted toxins and
another cigarette only suffo-
cates these already humid-
battered lungs. another trip
out of doors only brings
realization of the heat inside,
buried deep beneath time-
pressured skin. some heart
forcing beats even though
cells have hardened via emo-
tionally evolved polysaccha-
rides. perhaps times' gain of
addiction finds lack of release
of toxins, perhaps the devel-
opment of a superior being
detached. lies, and realized,
wholly-owned and flawed
chitin formed of prior life,
formed of shared chemicals
of plasma-like water shed.
and called abrupt ending,
and lack of self-perspective
found lead-in to ending the
reign of self. ending some
reign of I the Destroyer.

and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.

losing it, losing all
and sleep came in
a six hour flight.
thrown clear of the
abscessed daylight
and losing longing
early in the night.
and longing for err
little thing to walk
by, wigglin' and
they say we were
friends. but not quite
in understanding of
this concept of that
word thrown clear of
pitying mouth and
lossless droning voice.
losing it, losing all
and err thing ever
considered truth or
actuality. though, and
in truth of truth, these
are wasted words.
wasted for purpose out-
side of another. no pur-
pose to any other when
isolation was formed as
moral dogma, when prefe-
rence is towards burnt hands
in place of yard-stick lashings.

and only reading, only
input dulls nerves to
the truth in word.
without output, wi-
thout application of
garnered (no, acrrued)
intelligence then wh-
ere can be the soul
to wisdom. and exper-
ience is part found-
ation, and without sec-
ondary support man
shall stand alone his
selful house. and
cries in question of
fairness, the redundant,
as an aspect of Life.
as a driving force,
one that seizes with
each lurch. and those
cries echo from a plane
A to B life when we
are not vertical in Na-
ture, but instead we
slide from top knot
down some rope strung
by supreme benefactor.
to be caught in a noose
on the way down, or
to slip sublime and free
from the burns left
on the palms of existence.