An Exhibition of Trials

“Warnings take hell and high water. Eyes race to the sick of the stomach. All the losses I’ve started to watch, all the urges I’ve tried make me want to rush while I’m still alive off the blood. Meet me somewhere where the hearses go to heaven, in the twelfth hour of closing verve, in the middle of the effervescing haze as the sun shines whitely and decorates the neck of the sky. I wouldn’t lie, I won’t make a sound. Take the fault from me and I’ll fix myself till eternity. I’ll remember it well, like the rain of my reasons and the pump of my problems, if I have a memory of occurring left to my head it’s getting dim, too dim to look at the brightness, if I keep dreaming then I’ll find a day that stands still, a day that doesn’t subtract the happy times. My heart goes on chanting its beat like an anxious prayer, my mind keeps being nervous. I can’t survive if this is the act of this lounge, it’s too psychotic and wintry. You have to take me right now, aneurysm, be faithful like a euphemism if not then forget it – I’m just going to crack readily, redly. But If I get away from this dark hold, I’ll run to a great Caribbean summer, I’ll run, run, run”

Tragic Magic

At the dawn’s premier light, ride up higher.
With a Shanghai sunrise, come easy rider.
It’s the black-and-white horizon that colors always misunderstand
But it’s just the way that I am.
Rowing my cool and holding your hand.

It's the end of July, young lion, 
Did the oceanic wind catch your fire?
Has the electric verse on the movie screen caught your silver
Through the darkening dire river
Freeing the spirit culture had, 
In the Californian run, the sand, the land. 


They were stranger's forever, we were forever's stranger. 
An evermore and a never, a cover of dangers.  

How Now

Never an honest world, never a promised tomorrow. Well, never mind.

Upon a day, a while wherefore pain and company, it’s brother dear, come silently.

No eye of fate, this brain has gloomy fear, and this heart has hued bearing changing passions.

Now I’m nothing, 1956. My own mind, the war. Angelic clothes full of tears. When I was a kid, it was better cause I was sorry.

 

How Now?

The Inn of Sweet Expression

On the path of true and simple happiness lies nothing to deviate. It’s not even a road, it’s an unpretentious setting where you realize you are in some moments of your survival. In rare but honestly the most memorable instances of life, wherever and whatever are enough. It’s enough. Everything is fine, let things be reflection in a wineglass full of cola and contemplation the spring of water from the fountain of showers. I know that what I think isn’t always right and almost never healthy but I can’t stop what I love to do.

When Life Imitates Harm

“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.”

Funk Beauty Dream

“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.”

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.