The sky is of sapphire ice drops, the crowd is worried
All the things I have, I have in the bruised memory,
I ought not hurry to the ride, to the raining sunshine,
But as time goes by, I hit and run the mountain and azures,
In the pale fire, the grinning moonlight, and settle on a journey.
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.
It was the middle of the day, high noon, amid a canyon, atop a red rock. Everything was on dusty scripts in Cherokee and Navajo, it was heeling a Mexican extravaganza. It was a fantastic reverie, an irreverent fantasy, it was whatever begets a distinction from archaic routine. I had been revived by the spirit of my new friend, a proper stranger. He was young and fazed by how much you have to know to make it through a day or the day teaches in consequences and not lessons. He had multiple dependencies. Multiple. Excessive. It was like a collection of pizzazz and horror that circled back to a point where beginning to fix anything was stunted by how many ideas you can lose in the middle of a sentence. I had borrowed his caravan to blast myself in a desert. I was always verging on death, never doing it. He didn’t let me crash but he died himself. I’m waiting still to decide whether or not I should dream my destruction or lash out like an emotive genius…
In all honesty, to live a fast life is to be quick and telling your time and being smart to edit gruesome reality and even mundane unreality- not all thoughts are begging Bukowski. I gazed blankly at the urges and battles of the mind-give in to one. It’s tormenting. Every problem you have is because you can’t escape yourself- you’re always thinking like yourself, you’re talking like yourself, you’re being yourself. Who are you if not yourself? And if you are yourself, are you succinct and sufficient? Death is your only physiological and philosophical escape, your pessimistic friend, your bad end. Does not being alive help? Nobody will tell, nobody knows, and yet everybody’s waiting. Waiting in life, for life. To be something, to have someone, to get better.
It’s all the wrong places of the heart. Of hearts. My heart, your heart. I have shivered myself down through. In colloquialism I do not please myself, my toleration on this earth is to please the unfamiliar, to expand myself onto the world. Slight remembrances are my most productive probabilities for a carrying onward after my passing through the hands of a heavenly hand to seep through the African Medina.
And to be where, a place, somewhere or someplace
Pressed against the sugarcoat of greatness, on its slim chest
Wanting to be fresh, wanting to be there in regular frequencies
And to clench the study, light up the reason and smile at treason
And breathe the swollen air.
Five stories high on schools and vows,
And the daytime is now for the witnesses to ascend,
Down the flights of fine friends to an eternal lie.
But breathe the swollen breeze, squall easy the Heath.
Recall the sights of shining bends to the fitness of avowed wreaths.
Can the hourglass silhouette, quicksand the land of bets
Days that stood still to kill the man of crass nets,
And be the becoming that becomes the being for startling
A wrecked starting that the quicksand pulls in majors and minors, minus and plispl,
Taming the gaming blame, gambling the flaming shadow of belief, to release a relief, to catch a thief.
Towards the auditorium, a few words slipped on the microphone, from my mouth, not someplace of the heart. My gaze was shunned and fixed, the name of events and processes on my lips, and yet I could not muster the security and expanse of a modern world. Despairingly the audience said “Ha!” And I was scared. These notions of confidence and contentment were rethought in my mind, in flashes and brief encounters with the institution responsible for legalizing its execution. And I was consequently, afraid and wished to abscond away from the auditorium and toward a hungry holiday.
Dramatic events forced my ruling spirit into hoarded ammunition, the scarcity of following destroyed the hope to beget a distressed tension onto my crunched form, my crunched form. The less I have, the less I desire and yet the auditorium set me to a degenerate generation where I succumb to wounded words and wear the weary, weak, weekly worked phenomenon of a vest, a faded velvet vest that remains agreeable in the nighttime.
