The Wayward Meridian

“I’m just smashed. Whatever happy moments I have are subtracted from my innermost feeling- my anxiety, my indecisiveness. I can’t lead this life. It has instances where happiness flashes while the other times I’m just swimming with the tide but it turns the minute I catch the drift. Why can’t the water just pick me up and deliver me to the finish line after which I could just freely screw myself up, blare my noises wildly. Why am I young for all the good stuff? Like those decisions and benders and self-destructive behavior. I can see that happiness is taken away in a minute, because that next minute you know more and this extra knowledge destroys the now false shine of momentous morphine of the body, and the morphine of the mind just because it doesn’t conform to facts. I’ll disagree with all moral ethics that I’ve been pushed into believing. It’s all mainstream and plain, bland, bleak, normal with no wave of personal goodness. But I don’t want to think I’m bad. I’m only what I’m trying to be until finally I am tired. After I get tired all I have new is a blacker tone of nothingness. Look at me now, I’m glad because all I say, all I do- everything I do- is true to myself, a human under higher powers. It’s an endless bummer to have a good mind. You get hooked on the scene of depression and the torment is ingeniously genuine and not some made up reason to not be bright. People elsewhere will have to realize that it’s not about us, it’s about forgetting us. Forget about us.”


I’m going back,

I’m young in portraits, I’m cold in talk

But while I’m still young.

I’m going home,

Where bright white lights still glimmer glamour

And yellow lights glimmer warmly,

Who knew I’d have this much fun.

Come on, you know you like sparkle and drama

Not good little gulls.

Never mind I’ll stand on the platform on my own,

Bank on Basque boulevard and American avenues.

Stop, happily. 

An Abstract and Absurd Consciousness

” I don’t know who I have, everybody seems shallow. They maybe are shallow like salt pits. Are salt pits shallow though? But I still like people, I still love them too, they are the only beings that could actually help me tolerate my survival. I used to like my people-the people I know and have- but now they seem to have been consumed by the ash-like monotone of constancy. Everything has changed dramatically and not fashionably. Change is like charcoal after burning or in my case the past, its like debris left behind after the flood has hit the places. Do all my questions have answer or is it just me at their loss- because I am lost in the finding. A loss is fine, its brilliant, its just the prettiest cover to the endless bummer that has eclipsed my clarity of sight that is wasting and weeping away its time in my mind. My mind is like a disco ball, carnival Ferris-wheel, its just funky and I think its good. I’ll have better people and places after a while, I’m breathing and sweating that’s all that matters in the present. The future is great, I’m carefully collecting colorful clues.”

Clock’s and Calender’s Crimson Spell

The visuals of the mind are lush with the advertisements and the theater of forgetfulness for a fun cause. “Forget about troubles! Forget about us! We’re all about retiring from you! Evermore you! Forever!”

Tunneling past landlocked locations and costing past west coasts, deserted in a desert with spangles and an array of stars in the night sky. Nighttime is everybody’s and the daytime’s sunlight is good for us, our health. There is a sense of plurality in the green cover of trees teaching lessons that wishes are counted, counted in numbers, discounted by deeds. A sense of being and not becoming, a blow without brains, a roar of rudimentary rebellion is love of the verses distanced from splendor. Sighs, breaths, huffs and howls churn into means of show. But you can stop for a minute. Stop, happily.

Honeyed Music

Love is A Nightly Abstraction. Days are Entirely perfected by the thought of nighttime Love. Roaming past your very own funny Eternity with a friend whom you love, to that I say Yes. I shouldn’t say much because no one has less knowledge than me regarding the Subject but here we are. An epiphany can Move A person very deeply too, with utmost Zeal, In just a New moon, a Good daytime too.

As is Nirvana…

Artful Aims around an Apocalyptic Aeon

On a camera or a canvas, a shattered ocean becomes scattered into an incredible panorama and the hills morph to misty highlands, hazing the surrounding views. The beauty of the world has stage to showcase its tone and especial actuality. Its either an ideal sea or an idle hill, but it is what it is by who worked to burn the destitution of worldly duty. This is, to me, the aesthetic of art- its expression is an evident vitality and its the easy getaway for those repressed by the shadows of entrapment.

Lately, I find myself having episodes of uncertainty to differ from convention or just differ from the world. Then its absolute that I fluctuate between moods so all is at the beat of my show. Yet still inside I know that the sky is a forever blue and that the air is an easier friend perfumed with floral wits. Art arrests the notion of tragedy, dire mind and corrupt glory.

Amidst a Dream

Impulse is always stronger and prouder than logic and people have wrote with it until they felt tired by the waves of wild wind running across the silent evenings, whistling and fading in and out of the remains of the performance and the stage of the weariness showed by the kings and the queens over weekends in the notorious world. Still the radio blazes with the honeyed music as the lights drowse and ripple surrounding elements, some sway to the gentler fall of the glowing moon and cruise to the poetry around. The balconies wet, ropes twirling around swings like a whirlwind, the play of the trues of bad age heralded by the residents documenting their existence through monuments festooned with roses embracing the grunge that rested on the railings and the trees that lined up linearly to hat the ground below them and shimmer the water that fell from spell to spell in between spells of rain. Pulling over your soul to envision sections of design and gaze and to agree that in spectator-ship, there’s no last anything, everything lasts. This may as well be the wonderfully temporary influence of the earth’s youth and its flair of assuming experience. 

Deep-Dyed Detachment

I needed to hold, wait to bring what I bought, breathe until I could have had it. And so I just waved and stood near the station waiting for the thoughts that I would store in the box I was holding, breathing the winter gales misted with foggy air. In two hours I had escaped.

My time is tingling on my tongue, my head is heading into heaven from this stark thicket that is my home now. Torpidity is there, Lucidity is here! There I can go but I’ll stay here. I’ll litter the sparkle and clean the junk while shattered and speaking- said say see stars strewn, streaked athwart splendid skies. Tunneling towards the tunnel to tributes and things. I’m not ashamed, I’m shameless, and I’m finally happy! Lapses in the valves that striate my heart are pumping fleetingly. The capital capillaries, veneered veins and artful arteries push and pull thin like true blood.

Share the shoddy and the shy but you are what you are, you are leaving.