Out on a lone, near the shoreline, circling trash cans, behind the ancient galleries, the racing mind cradled in the photographs of yesterday, the aspirations of today, and the heavy hope sailing for tomorrow. Hung in the deep current, prickled in the flesh, with furious eyes coloring the room, opining that the woods are upon the places you enter to spectate the outside. Strangeness fades into the odes and opuses you compose, and you’re of perfect gravity in the real world, the real world. The light knows I love, lie, live, borrow, and I cry in the beat of the night, among whispers and caressing hands, in divisions and in lonesome crowds.
Sequences of carousels, consequences of carnivals and open air – CONTEMPLATION.
Marooned in the methods of courtesy, those will be, who in the flicker of crying cigarettes contend with erosion of monetized life, turn to vagrancy. They’re always fundamental in times of adversity, always alluding to their rusting age and the cruel, unforgiving world. Its a cruel world, a cruel unforgiving world in which he unfortunately walks. And he might insist that the rain gives the best baths, and that the cold wind is the best way to catch your falling self and there’s nothing softer to the nestled head then muddy grass. All the windows that are subjected to his peek have shutters, he doesn’t know better, that’s what I say, what I think, where this thought was made- somewhere in between urgency to present and to venerate the whiteness of his dins.
Panegyric panacea for the gentleman whose lurking shadow is Joyce, and his dream is impoverished by the stricken maternity.