Sometimes the clockwork extracts and is presented in my observation, viewing the limited and time decay-edness of our mortality and I feel the sentimentality as the cogs move each other along. In concentrated songscapes, through the ventilated air tubes of my mechanism. Emotional condensation more of a metaphor, though agonizing and overwhelming, I am endeared to the notion of being a part of this essential Nonsense. Perceiving the ridiculous of the persevering of ‘unnatural’ forms, then recognizing them in my own patterns..
    
        I am the sharp angled sphere
    That which is the object of my revolution
      My enemy is the objection from within
     Spin this wheel of contradiction
  The sphere revealed in acceptance
    The sphere revealed is acceptance
    Release the shield, unveil protection
    Caught aflame, refuse the smolder
   Eternal bolder built illumines
  Sunrise appraised by novel mind
  Repeal time with absorption
Now is the holy potion

We sort of drift on many layered waves moving in opposing directions leaving in the middle occasionally.. get in these grooves that aren’t pleasant, kind of burnish, or temperamental.

I regularly, when looking for a reason, find nothing but a question bouncing around itself. No expansion in a tin cup.

Love is a sickness and I may be clinical
Even without a point of reflection
Extending further, further still
The echo breaks my feelings into shards of glass
Frightening me dearly, the sharpness nauseating
Paling energy and it’d be refreshing to cry
             But weakness shames in this alleyway of
              fiends
And my friends are angels, I cannot grasp
     Glimmering pasts and greeted headings
  These corporate meanderings prescribed
                                         surely is no cure
Because these cruelties extend to all possibilities
   And uglies the flower, the exquisite of being
   Why you leave.. The little self leads
             Endless mirrors pushing you back

Those who thought it best to
swallow the traces of their roots and
float above so called ‘primitive’ gestures
found that the growth of those fibrous
nerves didn’t end in the guts of their
devourers. Soon enough they would reveal themselves once again as a reminder
and a revealer of what truly is.

We’re all standing in line
                            at the creature harvest
And I guess.
                          This is the best crop.
To digest..this process

Residual slime trails amongst
endless concrete plains
An excretion from yr mucus membrane
What an odd mechanic be your(yr) existence
Catching rays which may also be yr doom
And the shines glimmer on the dews
Shiny tip-tops: behold the grass towers
A city of stars along the lawns
Fowl performing melodies
Searching for a tempo, breaks the beat
Because it’s intrinsically
there, within, everywhere

..What was meant was never said and what is satiable isn’t fed upon. Long to be that faun in a misty meadow, lounging at dawn on the grass, gazing upon the peaks of eternity. What are we learning and what’s with the misuse? We tenderly abuse that which we dwell on. Claiming it a love letter, when a Better view reveals(in a peeling manner) that these are just clingings of a scrotal piercing fashion. Latching to these attachments as sacraments of dependability, nullifies valued spectacality. The pureness to the core of reality and the mess is a beautifully delicious birthday cake which never ends