Who is left to tell this tale?
Lost in my vicinity: these walls in my periphery. This is what they call divided symmetry.
Nostalgia-minded... remember we talked just like the friends we seemed?
Since then we've drifted apart.
You returned a changed person as if coming back from a mission to Mars.
Every letter that I scripted embarked into the cosmos.
And every sentiment returned in your empty letters, just not hope.
Without you time froze and I resigned to the depths of me.
I always yearned to express with an ease that I've grown,
but stress is deeply etched in the seams of the blind soul.
Collectively, as memory serves...
your voice a product of my close quarters, reflecting reverb.
The doctors can't tell if they expect to see improvement.
I guess it seems to them that these expressions are delusions.
But how could I pretend to feel this kind of closeness.
I'd rather just be branded with a pathologic diagnosis.
At least then they'd set me free to seek their asymptotic "higher motive."
It's mathematics, and not for lack of practice do I disclose this:
This truth; if only it would pass for madness.
At least then I could live in peace inside my own skin.
But they're convinced that they can offer me the recipe of normalcy.
It's their abyss! I'm on the precipice... the cusp of essences!
If they only knew your love was simply pure energy,
and I would ford the sea... on the barge of broken trust and enmity.
They'd see me toss belief in the wind and rip the sails of the vessel.
O! To leave this existential jail I attend to.
And I intend to...
Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.
These walls in my vicinity, stalking my periphery.
This is what they call divided symmetry.
Vividly; a mere perception of an image of our"selves:"
reflections of conditions found sufficient to expel...
this canvas; this embedded corpse of forced illusion;
I told you I would cover up the source of all my bruises.
Of course you knew it; you'd see fit that we are not the same.
Your passionate gaze, emphatic, amazed, and fraught with blame.
If the doctors had convinced you I was simply in your brain,
need I state how interesting the pain would be, how quickly I'd refrain,
for each day without you next to me was ecstasy.
The paradox of solitude, freedom to believe in Self.
And yet the struggle of our disconnect releases demons;
swarming minions of depiction. Forced to feel free in Hell!
I've needed peace since they took you from your slumber, then.
And looking into our broken mirror I would wonder when...
you'd return... but your constant pressure to uncover bliss
was just a front, behind your mask a sultry succubus.
"But, I'm asking... how does this make you feel..."
To be honest doctor, I still can't shake the aching heart.
And yet the happiness ensues despite the fact that when we break apart
I feel the tears wet the canvas and drip into the vacant dark.
Dreaming of the geometric nature of depravity:
it seems the more you take from the universe the more the madness creeps.
We are demons. We are focused on our stubborn natures;
and yet this broken mirror suggests a shattered future.
Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.
It is we. It is I. We are none. We are all.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Pixel-stained window...
Display: video noise...
From slumber, wake to the calls of the Most High;
another episode, a schizophrenic node where time just floats by.
A whole life stuck in a stasis, where growth is a myth.
Expecting that a simple truth is supposed to exist.
A small television embedded in the wall seems like improper decor.
Each day is anticipation, waiting for the knock on the door...
Screaming silent noise. Each speck of dust it's own pious voice.
And with the knock, the static ceases:
"I dream of an ionized polity; our union's emboldened freedom revitalized.
Behold the meaning." An unfolded tapestry fell upon their tired eyes.
A massive symbolic nothingness. Concocted succubus from the pixel box.
"I realize you'll struggle with the meaning now.
But from within you'll pick apart your integrated mixed response."
Then the static resumed. Mind turned back to the blue darkness that inhabits the room.
Eyes upon the desolation that was once considered the core of Nature.
The street illuminated by the blaze of an ancient brazier:
the canonical vestibule containing the ever burning flame of war.
A couple hackneyed corner stores absorbed the poor:
the clearest indication as to what misfortune favored.
This gross gauntlet's exhausted by misuse and mismanagement.
And this pathetic display was Hope's market distraught and entangled,
yet... What they saw was an Angel... this, cloth like arrangement.
Crimson conglomerate, a black centerpiece with the script of the Empire:
This is Eternity.
This vast Heaven blessing the rabble with His ambition to prosper.
How could one forget the image, a monster; our masked enemy
with his finger on the wick, set to exploit such vast energy.
A single history exists, and the window that is peered through,
only traces the twilight, in the shadows where the fear moves.
Then the static subsided.
Again the drapery falls covering the hallway behind.
In the fore, but off to the side rests a majestic masterpiece with mesmerizing marble design.
A sculpture, divine; and he addresses it with piety:
"I dream of a unified collective, thus we pay the cost for the prize."
And pointing to the etching on it's arm, he recites:
"This is Absolute."
With eyes upon the devastating implications of entropy.
A pixel box full of hope in the face of integrated, infected deeds.
Within; more than what one could expect to see,
and yet, it seems His smile resembles a full introspective peace.
They ask for an acceptance, beneath a City of Smog,
one could simply consult the window to see that desolation is privy to all.
In this outdated machine their belief in dominant subservience
should facilitate a true crisis, [i]existentia[/i]; so obviously permanent.
A combined persona emblazoned with abysmal radiance.
But it doesn't...
And when the static resumes, underneath the afternoon dusk,
it only takes one to recognize the consistent sapience passing through... us.
Panorama: from left to right you'll notice the crystalline wasteland.
Each citizen frozen in place.
Sand from the hourglass levitates an inch from the ground.
Each body breathing, living out their existence through sound.
A pixel box screaming destitute agony.
And when the static ceases, and the screen is filled with color again,
the people come to life for a brief episode of love and regret.
Blinded by their hedonistic passion for aesthetics,
a simple turn of a key turns madness into essence.
An historian could summarize the absolute's intention,
but language can't describe the nature of such intractable impressions.
Humans embossed. Not on a canvas where truth isn't lost,
but inside a series of inevitable decisions you must choose at a cost.
Screaming silence through your pixel-stained window.
This is Reality.
From slumber, wake to the calls of the Most High;
another episode, a schizophrenic node where time just floats by.
A whole life stuck in a stasis, where growth is a myth.
Expecting that a simple truth is supposed to exist.
A small television embedded in the wall seems like improper decor.
Each day is anticipation, waiting for the knock on the door...
Screaming silent noise. Each speck of dust it's own pious voice.
And with the knock, the static ceases:
"I dream of an ionized polity; our union's emboldened freedom revitalized.
Behold the meaning." An unfolded tapestry fell upon their tired eyes.
A massive symbolic nothingness. Concocted succubus from the pixel box.
"I realize you'll struggle with the meaning now.
But from within you'll pick apart your integrated mixed response."
Then the static resumed. Mind turned back to the blue darkness that inhabits the room.
Eyes upon the desolation that was once considered the core of Nature.
The street illuminated by the blaze of an ancient brazier:
the canonical vestibule containing the ever burning flame of war.
A couple hackneyed corner stores absorbed the poor:
the clearest indication as to what misfortune favored.
This gross gauntlet's exhausted by misuse and mismanagement.
And this pathetic display was Hope's market distraught and entangled,
yet... What they saw was an Angel... this, cloth like arrangement.
Crimson conglomerate, a black centerpiece with the script of the Empire:
This is Eternity.
This vast Heaven blessing the rabble with His ambition to prosper.
How could one forget the image, a monster; our masked enemy
with his finger on the wick, set to exploit such vast energy.
A single history exists, and the window that is peered through,
only traces the twilight, in the shadows where the fear moves.
Then the static subsided.
Again the drapery falls covering the hallway behind.
In the fore, but off to the side rests a majestic masterpiece with mesmerizing marble design.
A sculpture, divine; and he addresses it with piety:
"I dream of a unified collective, thus we pay the cost for the prize."
And pointing to the etching on it's arm, he recites:
"This is Absolute."
With eyes upon the devastating implications of entropy.
A pixel box full of hope in the face of integrated, infected deeds.
Within; more than what one could expect to see,
and yet, it seems His smile resembles a full introspective peace.
They ask for an acceptance, beneath a City of Smog,
one could simply consult the window to see that desolation is privy to all.
In this outdated machine their belief in dominant subservience
should facilitate a true crisis, [i]existentia[/i]; so obviously permanent.
A combined persona emblazoned with abysmal radiance.
But it doesn't...
And when the static resumes, underneath the afternoon dusk,
it only takes one to recognize the consistent sapience passing through... us.
Panorama: from left to right you'll notice the crystalline wasteland.
Each citizen frozen in place.
Sand from the hourglass levitates an inch from the ground.
Each body breathing, living out their existence through sound.
A pixel box screaming destitute agony.
And when the static ceases, and the screen is filled with color again,
the people come to life for a brief episode of love and regret.
Blinded by their hedonistic passion for aesthetics,
a simple turn of a key turns madness into essence.
An historian could summarize the absolute's intention,
but language can't describe the nature of such intractable impressions.
Humans embossed. Not on a canvas where truth isn't lost,
but inside a series of inevitable decisions you must choose at a cost.
Screaming silence through your pixel-stained window.
This is Reality.
Preface: Manifesto
What follows is a series of descriptions of the Manifesto of Truth in the Universe
The preface begins with a story of the Man who wrote it:
Letter bound for the coast beyond: I could have chosen wrong,
The preface begins with a story of the Man who wrote it:
Letter bound for the coast beyond: I could have chosen wrong,
but I was confident that this genius's prose was strong.
I needed his ideas to percolate.
He pleaded with God, but I knew the pen was used to flirt with Fate.
A centrifugal aura surrounded his Reasoning.
Of course the amounting beliefs of the crowds were seething
as riots abounded with violent doubts and grievances.
I dance through the causeways of Peace, and
I dance through the causeways of Peace, and
this couldn't have come at more substantial a pace.
No mechanical basis: a meta-truth conception-Proof with
simply intangible frames split by enchanting arrangements.
Some used to call him the Black Magician with language.
The most entrenched of the mystics used to insist he was dangerous.
Some used to call him the Black Magician with language.
The most entrenched of the mystics used to insist he was dangerous.
Logical constructs. Philosophical omnibus
with more danger on each page than an Eastern tsunami.
Such resplendent puns to reveal or expand the lease,
for ideological real estate's just as volatile as land and sea...
or bricks and mortar during the most vicious wars.
And that is where we're headed it seems. Demanding peace,
he wrote The Treatise: a series of interconnected decrees:
And I only paraphrase.
"Because of our plummet into chaotic stress, one might suggest,
that if God we're almighty; if he caused all that I've been led
to believe, he'd at least have the courage to show himself.
If he creates us, he is greater by definition:
But we're the created, utilizing senses... living.
Our perception... the extended presence of our minds,
wouldn't just reach out and snag a semblance of divine...
ostention.
He's either beyond, or super-immanent.
Imposed upon us with the strength of Truth and Wisdom."
for ideological real estate's just as volatile as land and sea...
or bricks and mortar during the most vicious wars.
And that is where we're headed it seems. Demanding peace,
he wrote The Treatise: a series of interconnected decrees:
And I only paraphrase.
"Because of our plummet into chaotic stress, one might suggest,
that if God we're almighty; if he caused all that I've been led
to believe, he'd at least have the courage to show himself.
If he creates us, he is greater by definition:
But we're the created, utilizing senses... living.
Our perception... the extended presence of our minds,
wouldn't just reach out and snag a semblance of divine...
ostention.
He's either beyond, or super-immanent.
Imposed upon us with the strength of Truth and Wisdom."
His agenda was to instantly attack religion.
He knew that postmodern societies were on the cusp,
simply of cataclysm.
simply of cataclysm.
His crux was action driven;
to place the hearts and minds of the masses in Logic's region;
He wanted to make sure that God could see Him.
But reason often steered his stratagems,
even though he spoke out against reason itself after it:
I can only paraphrase:
I can only paraphrase:
"Reason is a filter that information passes through.
Similar to emotions... situated to distract us.
Proof is in the classic argument between the sexes.
The reason for apocalypse, a clash between lives.
The reign of opposites.
Paradoxical. Chains of straining common sense
leading the mind out of range. Inherent obstacles to progress.
The pain of dominance. Reason is as it doesn't do."
He spoke of demons disguised as angels.
His paradigm was strange,
he'd stare as if blinded by the light of day,
then retreat to his den to write the meaning of life.
They say, genius is often extracted from same vein as madness.
A linguistic stronghold arranged in matrix patterns.
A linguistic stronghold arranged in matrix patterns.
He was prophetic, yet couldn't envision the haze.
Just episodic nightmares with no one to witness the strange.
Until today.
Until today.
Humanity's paradox...
Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt
Humanity's paradox; from the top down there's dominance.
Prepared or not, we're taught how by Congresses
to believe in the truth -- damaged or shot down by terror plots.
True vanity cares for squat...
They fought for this? Those rebel fighters that lost their limbs,
only to free us for Jesus and expose us to careful shocks.
Systems overloaded by chromosomal affliction;
genetically broken and missing wholesome growth and subsistence.
(Food and Drug: poison; ointments of pain,
media propaganda that spoils the brain).
To choose enough choices! How incredibly hopeless;
to be a species only known for its limits.
But choices remain to be discovered.
With passive voices constrained our cries are vicious.
Just loud enough to occupy a couple city blocks of business.
Regardless though... on the other-side exists live volition.
Any time a thinker is poised to explain
you've got the freedom to decide to listen;
to acknowledge frozen traditions
and move on to reorient this process shown to our children.
O, but to exercise your restraint in the face of open resilience!
From I to Mind: the struggle is an existential one.
But at the same time we hustle for a presidential sum.
Bound by the same system that allows for free decisions,
purchased on the backs of the proud -- deplete of wisdom.
Emissions abound, complete restriction expounded,
with synthetic rhetoric, reason dismissed and replaced by
disbelief in the sciences, not the mystical faiths... Lies
or at least compliant deceit -- in defiance of peace.
Rhyme is release from the bindings of ruin.
Fate is just that inexplicable alliance of music
and language. Utopia exists when truth isn't dangerous.
A union of strangeness, a philosopher's Dream!
Total peace of Mind: a prophet's reprieve!
No confusion to sway myth, where the opulent breathes
the same oxygen as the top of the heap!
I read a story once, it spoke of a gruesome death.
A strangled child had a mind where the truth was kept;
a heart where the triumphs of Our music slept;
a pair of open eyes where the only signs of Our beauty wept.
He didn't succumb to fate, just the Laughing Luck of Hate,
bounding through amongst the Pain, it used his Flesh,
disguised the trust he gave to his guests
who camouflaged this disgust with Grace.
Such is the dichotomy: the reason freedom is contested.
Some call it Sin, others say it's just the menial connection
between us all. All within. None without.
That -- he told his son when he couldn't sleep -- is what love's about.
Humanity's paradox; from the top down there's dominance.
Prepared or not, we're taught how by Congresses
to believe in the truth -- damaged or shot down by terror plots.
True vanity cares for squat...
They fought for this? Those rebel fighters that lost their limbs,
only to free us for Jesus and expose us to careful shocks.
Systems overloaded by chromosomal affliction;
genetically broken and missing wholesome growth and subsistence.
(Food and Drug: poison; ointments of pain,
media propaganda that spoils the brain).
To choose enough choices! How incredibly hopeless;
to be a species only known for its limits.
But choices remain to be discovered.
With passive voices constrained our cries are vicious.
Just loud enough to occupy a couple city blocks of business.
Regardless though... on the other-side exists live volition.
Any time a thinker is poised to explain
you've got the freedom to decide to listen;
to acknowledge frozen traditions
and move on to reorient this process shown to our children.
O, but to exercise your restraint in the face of open resilience!
From I to Mind: the struggle is an existential one.
But at the same time we hustle for a presidential sum.
Bound by the same system that allows for free decisions,
purchased on the backs of the proud -- deplete of wisdom.
Emissions abound, complete restriction expounded,
with synthetic rhetoric, reason dismissed and replaced by
disbelief in the sciences, not the mystical faiths... Lies
or at least compliant deceit -- in defiance of peace.
Rhyme is release from the bindings of ruin.
Fate is just that inexplicable alliance of music
and language. Utopia exists when truth isn't dangerous.
A union of strangeness, a philosopher's Dream!
Total peace of Mind: a prophet's reprieve!
No confusion to sway myth, where the opulent breathes
the same oxygen as the top of the heap!
I read a story once, it spoke of a gruesome death.
A strangled child had a mind where the truth was kept;
a heart where the triumphs of Our music slept;
a pair of open eyes where the only signs of Our beauty wept.
He didn't succumb to fate, just the Laughing Luck of Hate,
bounding through amongst the Pain, it used his Flesh,
disguised the trust he gave to his guests
who camouflaged this disgust with Grace.
Such is the dichotomy: the reason freedom is contested.
Some call it Sin, others say it's just the menial connection
between us all. All within. None without.
That -- he told his son when he couldn't sleep -- is what love's about.
United Federation of the Hegemony
April 20, 2412
United Federation of the Hegemony
Listen to my story, it is a tale of two paradigms.
United Federation of the Hegemony
Listen to my story, it is a tale of two paradigms.
I am but a fraction of the whole, beneath a veil of truth terrorized.
I am not destined to be static, but cursed to be paralyzed
until irony ensues and my worth can be verified...
---
Dystopian fictions fail to describe the situation at present;
Orwell was innovative and clever, Wells instigated in letters
fear of the unknown through swift invasions and intimidation.
Today is a different day, its, beyond any distant Matrix,
even the one written in cinema now is considered ancient.
These words are a simple preface: we live in a technocracy...
where robotic philosopher kings manipulate the Fed's policies.
They couldn't be wrong, they've accounted for all contingencies,
until one day a boy stumbled upon me as I drifted along the city's stream:
Dystopian fictions fail to describe the situation at present;
Orwell was innovative and clever, Wells instigated in letters
fear of the unknown through swift invasions and intimidation.
Today is a different day, its, beyond any distant Matrix,
even the one written in cinema now is considered ancient.
These words are a simple preface: we live in a technocracy...
where robotic philosopher kings manipulate the Fed's policies.
They couldn't be wrong, they've accounted for all contingencies,
until one day a boy stumbled upon me as I drifted along the city's stream:
Through his eyes I had to seem like a heiroglyphic dream,
he, used to eye scanning as the instant means of transmitting "me,"
for currency is now accrued based on one's latent abilities...
You are the face of your "dollar bill," not some vagrant from history.
In the past I was the root of all the evil that surrounded humans.
Nothing more than a curse, simply a profound illusion
that forced people into enslavement to earn a fraction
only to turn around and contribute to their subversive habits.
I'm being carried from my resting place across the platform toward a sentry.
The boy showed its "eyes" his embedded passport affording him entry.
I can see the domes above controlling the impact of solar flares,
until we entered his home, upstairs where he lived alone and scared.
The boy scanned me with some interesting device.
"What is this piece of paper with such intricate designs?
It seems to resemble what I learned in History that time,
about a species of humans who traded objects for paper,
which had such value as the society's progress would favor..."
He noticed inscribed upon my body a cryptic inscription:
Novos ordo seclorum, little did he envision,
that in 2412 I'd be the salvation of his kindred.
In an instant he turned and ran toward his pixel-screens,
on them a news anchor was in mid scream about rioting in the streets.
It appears the System of Exchange has been assaulted
the means of scanning for purchase power once so exalted
has been irreversibly exhausted...
The boy turned and looked at me as I rested on his scanner...
In God We Trust..., judging by his face I guess he had the answer.
A bright light overcame me for an instant...
he stuffed me in his pocket as my first sibling was printed...
until we entered his home, upstairs where he lived alone and scared.
The boy scanned me with some interesting device.
"What is this piece of paper with such intricate designs?
It seems to resemble what I learned in History that time,
about a species of humans who traded objects for paper,
which had such value as the society's progress would favor..."
He noticed inscribed upon my body a cryptic inscription:
Novos ordo seclorum, little did he envision,
that in 2412 I'd be the salvation of his kindred.
In an instant he turned and ran toward his pixel-screens,
on them a news anchor was in mid scream about rioting in the streets.
It appears the System of Exchange has been assaulted
the means of scanning for purchase power once so exalted
has been irreversibly exhausted...
The boy turned and looked at me as I rested on his scanner...
In God We Trust..., judging by his face I guess he had the answer.
A bright light overcame me for an instant...
he stuffed me in his pocket as my first sibling was printed...
Love Insurance
"Love Insurance" - based on a true story
"Fate leads, but the unwilling drags along." - Seneca
The congregation swayed with every pompous phrase;
it's hard to take seriously arguments starting with "the Bible states..."
My Mother used to be a Dead Head.
Hippie freedom into the grunge era.
Never grateful for the faithful nature I couldn't expunge.
Considered open minded by her friends, then...
Just when you thought a mind was impervious to penetration.
All it took was a mention that I was "curious with trepidation."
I couldn't adjust.
Extenuating circumstances ensued: imperfect family roots,
with philosophical garb torn by insurgents handling Truth!
Zealotry, of that down home American variety.
Hellish speech tearing through society.
And yet, I found Hope, staring through her prying greed,
as she screamed: "The Devil creeps! You'll likely be
torn asunder for nothing but a biological misfiring!"
At least she admitted, at times, that I hadn't a choice.
She noticed mostly that the "other kind" were more a passive annoyance.
But she could be quite Savage in voice.
High school wasn't a struggle; intellectually.
Time moved, as if divided between different mental streams...
thinking with profundity, of grand ideas... a little sexually.
Meeting her wasn't a challenge either.
I guess if we just go along with fate we'll find happiness eventually.
From amongst the clouds of ether:
connected, we... are representative collectively.
Essentially.
So, what are the implications now?
I sat and told you that I was your saving grace but now,
saving face is a major strain on your concentration.
I'm sorry I didn't stop mistakes before I could make them.
Obfuscating your problems?
Don't hide the pain for too long.
I've tried to change, but life is dangerous inside this matrix.
At one and the same time my mind changes then stabilizes.
My favorite times of the day include the time that I make;
they lie when they say convincingly they've got it made.
I'm too strong. A lava lake's creation follows if we stay
blind to the horror from the heralds of this awful place.
The arrows from the feral flocks. The rain.
The apocalyptic fall from grace you know that you've got to break.
I've tried to change! I promise.
To be honest, this is a truth that I would lie to save.
There's a sense in which perfection exists and yet,
we never admit it when it appears, so clearly.
I've seen nature perform miracles, more than fear,
more than spiritual delusion, more than confusion.
Something so deep you even struggle to resent it,
but instead you respect it, deeply connected.
With music, affection, a fusion, a union,
the way it feels when you move in... Finally.
A piece of Mind released in time to see, Us.
But...
I see comets. Primordial chemical concoctions.
A linear perception of the evidence is nonsense.
The portal through to this persistent newness is
just the catalyst to your non-existent exuberance.
Love is... all of the above, this
brilliance one doesn't imagine until they struggle with madness.
So I sit and watch freedom approach us.
If only they'll legislate. My Mother will get her fate.
There's not much Jesus can show us.
Have you ever seen a controlled thrust, with intent behind it?
Never mind... this, is all just so you can understand this.
I didn't want today to end in just another damned kiss.
"Fate leads, but the unwilling drags along." - Seneca
The congregation swayed with every pompous phrase;
it's hard to take seriously arguments starting with "the Bible states..."
My Mother used to be a Dead Head.
Hippie freedom into the grunge era.
Never grateful for the faithful nature I couldn't expunge.
Considered open minded by her friends, then...
Just when you thought a mind was impervious to penetration.
All it took was a mention that I was "curious with trepidation."
I couldn't adjust.
Extenuating circumstances ensued: imperfect family roots,
with philosophical garb torn by insurgents handling Truth!
Zealotry, of that down home American variety.
Hellish speech tearing through society.
And yet, I found Hope, staring through her prying greed,
as she screamed: "The Devil creeps! You'll likely be
torn asunder for nothing but a biological misfiring!"
At least she admitted, at times, that I hadn't a choice.
She noticed mostly that the "other kind" were more a passive annoyance.
But she could be quite Savage in voice.
High school wasn't a struggle; intellectually.
Time moved, as if divided between different mental streams...
thinking with profundity, of grand ideas... a little sexually.
Meeting her wasn't a challenge either.
I guess if we just go along with fate we'll find happiness eventually.
From amongst the clouds of ether:
connected, we... are representative collectively.
Essentially.
So, what are the implications now?
I sat and told you that I was your saving grace but now,
saving face is a major strain on your concentration.
I'm sorry I didn't stop mistakes before I could make them.
Obfuscating your problems?
Don't hide the pain for too long.
I've tried to change, but life is dangerous inside this matrix.
At one and the same time my mind changes then stabilizes.
My favorite times of the day include the time that I make;
they lie when they say convincingly they've got it made.
I'm too strong. A lava lake's creation follows if we stay
blind to the horror from the heralds of this awful place.
The arrows from the feral flocks. The rain.
The apocalyptic fall from grace you know that you've got to break.
I've tried to change! I promise.
To be honest, this is a truth that I would lie to save.
There's a sense in which perfection exists and yet,
we never admit it when it appears, so clearly.
I've seen nature perform miracles, more than fear,
more than spiritual delusion, more than confusion.
Something so deep you even struggle to resent it,
but instead you respect it, deeply connected.
With music, affection, a fusion, a union,
the way it feels when you move in... Finally.
A piece of Mind released in time to see, Us.
But...
I see comets. Primordial chemical concoctions.
A linear perception of the evidence is nonsense.
The portal through to this persistent newness is
just the catalyst to your non-existent exuberance.
Love is... all of the above, this
brilliance one doesn't imagine until they struggle with madness.
So I sit and watch freedom approach us.
If only they'll legislate. My Mother will get her fate.
There's not much Jesus can show us.
Have you ever seen a controlled thrust, with intent behind it?
Never mind... this, is all just so you can understand this.
I didn't want today to end in just another damned kiss.
Just Cease
A house upon a hill, upon a crest, amongst the chill.
Gusting winds like trusting sin, it wasn't real.
The doubt without the feeling, we suffered less,
but even though you struck my flesh; I wasn't killed.
Resurrected connections, a dream only lucid.
The music was flute-ish, deep and fluid, I knew it...
Creeping, gleaming, sneaking you in for union.
Communion, confusion exclusive to novelty;
Gusting winds like trusting sin, it wasn't real.
The doubt without the feeling, we suffered less,
but even though you struck my flesh; I wasn't killed.
Resurrected connections, a dream only lucid.
The music was flute-ish, deep and fluid, I knew it...
Creeping, gleaming, sneaking you in for union.
Communion, confusion exclusive to novelty;
prophecy when you toppled me, that promised summer;
I stopped to wonder, I hungered, and honestly
I stopped to wonder, I hungered, and honestly
you fed me when I needed it. That somber evening
I awoke up to find you sleeping; a nightmare, quite clear...
Quite scared even though I was right there.
Bite harder, scratch deeper so I can breathe again.
That fever, a demon's breath, brutal natures...
Image after image of your wishes, can I choose the flavor?
Shoot the paper with ink, if cupid's wrong
I just settle into myself and do a song. Move along.
Uniform lovely scent, the matron returns;
Quite scared even though I was right there.
Bite harder, scratch deeper so I can breathe again.
That fever, a demon's breath, brutal natures...
Image after image of your wishes, can I choose the flavor?
Shoot the paper with ink, if cupid's wrong
I just settle into myself and do a song. Move along.
Uniform lovely scent, the matron returns;
such vacant concerns, so flagrant your fragrance it burns.
To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.
To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.
Yes, love is religious orthodoxy, precision origami
an inch or more, to kick the door to stop me.
A distant war with bombings just to witness whores for intercourse.
The instant force continued so you could stick the sword inside me.
An infant, born a zombie, a different sort of body.
Organs torn to bits just for a copy, but there's orphans dying,
crying in the corners of the formless forests, endorphins.
Trying to abort the soreness; lying; won't report the corpses.
The metaphor obscureness, a corpus for fortune.
Rhyming is my orphic endorsement, assorted in orbit...
flying to erase the torment, morbid in shape, proportioned
for fate. If we pry we can escape the storms, arrange the forms.
A frame of thorns, a broken heart where the pain's absorbed.
A focused art, so much work until it's blown apart.
Bones in shards, so much hurt until she chokes the throat and
screams until we both explode and sleep, or bleed...
To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.
Pain is pleasure, fear is clearly what drives me.
Lyrically I'm me, serious silence but rhyming
is binding and blinding, reminding
A frame of thorns, a broken heart where the pain's absorbed.
A focused art, so much work until it's blown apart.
Bones in shards, so much hurt until she chokes the throat and
screams until we both explode and sleep, or bleed...
To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.
Pain is pleasure, fear is clearly what drives me.
Lyrically I'm me, serious silence but rhyming
is binding and blinding, reminding
that within the inner dimensions I'm shining, relentless.
Combining of sentence and message, defining
Combining of sentence and message, defining
the lessons from Mencius, dividing contention.
Suspended in the sky, free from the endless decline.
If humanity is good, only to be cultivated...
I extend an ultimatum, pretend, the awful hatred depends
on the pain that descends.
Suspended in the sky, free from the endless decline.
If humanity is good, only to be cultivated...
I extend an ultimatum, pretend, the awful hatred depends
on the pain that descends.
So when you aim to extend this misery,
juut remember there's no reward at the end.
Just cease.
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