Category: Screwery Brewery

Through and through a thousand splendid stars up an up, up in flames. And a million nights align across the hollowed sky, the ceilings crush slowly inward the decor of the room. The room of the house of the color blue, in the streets of Basque tongues in the hollering mouths, the city of mythical complications stretched slowly after the effervescence of the morning street scene.

Because I’m wandering lost towards the tomb of inner freedom, because I tried a judgement before the law that was flawed wherever I would fail. All that is true is truth, all that is unknown is a star trail apart. And I’ll be right here.

If there is no godly creature, the rocks are scattered in the glow of great sunshine, in the escape of black seasons, in the madness of young dreams, of beating hearts, of barbed veins of twisty, dusky afternoons draped by the dress of clouds. The crystal panes of windows bound in Spanish wood show a hundred years of cold smiles. Over here, the dim paradise of the gifted present, a human being on the balcony can be seen humming because the whole happy mess of being is jazzed by a funk beauty dream.

The pebble white angel cloud’s sonnet is long-drawn-out athwart the mystic sky. The holes-in-the-wall have a lilac frost, outside there is a lilac breeze amidst a hyacinth mist that forms an alliance with the innocent menthol tree-of-life.  The pale blush of celestial mysticism is the essence of my dreams, in the quite refuge of still aqua. The burnished sun is dressed in ivied robes of flares. And I’m sailing on a boat, to my dream maker’s castle-in-the-sky.

Doors open and doors closes. Everyone is in a room, I’m out in the hallway. Watching and wriggling with shades of green on postcards, nestled in a cradle, inappropriately placed in the corridors. Time drives by and I age a year each day.

O, all the time we scurried to places, on the inside we worried, and to see all the faces made us happy. Onward, the ocean we look blurry, to get free and we hurried. Sit in the midst of time, where the wind swings chimes and we’re never weary.

I have a recurring reverie that is most prominently being expanded in my imagination, its like the set of a movie that occupies all the studio lots from California till eternity.

I meet passion, its a lip that is painted a greenish blue, it’s breath smells like lavenders and Robitussin, and it speaks in a European dialect but with a pronounced Australian accent. At first, its voice comes through a black dim dark, then its vices shine a little line on its parched edges, then all of its wounds redden the outlined countenance, it isn’t truly there and I can’t imagine further so its a fluctuation of sordid truth, and it disappears and the lips pluck a few words from the musical mind to interpolate to my humdrum. It orates a danger to die for, a fashionable drama to change within. It’s warnings are warming, the struggle seems worth the recessions since the dispersal have a strong release. It seems that every man gets his wish when he sees those lips, and he hears its voice come through a icy ease, a given comfort, and just a long fatuous dwindle between the cool and the cooler. In vivid interludes, it interviews me with tough questions, I ask it where to be. It says an island and explains the spirits is an island to unleash and that powers is a pathway that is not easy or trigonometry yet another sordid truth that gives the islands palm tress, Mercedes, white sandy beaches and an evermore reason to distract from the mundane stories of commonplace isles at the supermarkets.

I cannot leave without a penny in my pocket, I am setting out on a journey, but if I accept the offers, I would be obliged to turn back. This might be the greatest thing for me, greater than a magazine or a funk beauty dream, just a little anonymity. Perhaps someday, if all is sadly done then looking back I will say “if only I had turned back, instead of going on”. Everybody lies, in some cases, I suppose people do blurt the madding truth, but other times most people are incapable of smearing the reality in the weakly outlined weeps of the day. Yet I, having bounced out before I could creep in, resent the sacred merriment of the helpful pathway where you admit to all those who handed you up and up, up in flames or anthemic Irish days. I’ll get my day simultaneously as I fulfill my hunger for fame and food, hope and hymns. What’s tougher than the aftermath, who’s wickeder and mean then the bitter end of luck and love, yet we persist through the feelings, our feelings. And in consequence, I must weave a sequence of plans to purchase me the didactic hand of mind, heart and the will. While the barriers are many, too many, to overcome maybe I could find a cove in the walls and jump while the prisoners watch in the gaze of swinging time. My own attire, a signature look, to heat the light of life, suture the bristles of brushes that failed to hold together the ravings of a kind that would have distributed gold coins, many gold coins. Serious and humorous in the eschewed night of beginning, to push the door back to the walls of the doorway and depart in the company of unavoidable circumstances, and to confront the future in a manner that doesn’t compromise my reliability as a hero. My hands are up hanging, so as to receive from the night, the resistance is in my journal, and then, in consequence, I open the peace and sweetness of my awake footsteps interrupting the said resistance so I may walk on, and I wish I might walk on.

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.