The elephant of frost on the windows, honey looking out at the ice. Sitting down by the window, heart flooded with fire, honey looking out at the vastness of ice.
Anna Livia Plurabelle. Gustav Klimt. Here comes everybody, waiting for midnight at the Hollywood Bowl. Cheerio, holidaymaker
Keep a summer down with yellow vividness fizzing beyond good and evil. Beyond good and evil, I’m fixed. Fists clenched, loudly crunching my grunts and freely sawing my sighs.
Take a long cold look and tell me, tell me when it all goes wrong. And I’ll say “no, no, no, no. This won’t be”
Dole the body and the spirit, part free part freak. Cheerio, holidaymaker, cheerio.
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.
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.
“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 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.”
Come, raise yourself up.
It’s a darkened life, dead end time.
Caught in the shadow of time past, my lenses darkly.
Holding my head up high, to hunt for a glimpse of a light.
It’s black and blue, its neon red, nothing that couldn’t
beat the kiss of doubt
In these hits, it feels like this.
And I will fall with no one beneath me.
Take the fall.
Feel the force of the sphere tonight.
Take the fall.
And take a call.
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.
Life shouldn’t be religion-something that you practice. There should be a bigger hand, a more powerful flow to it, like there’s passion and observation of other’s passion. So I write to express the feelings, the true commitment, because living out your fantasies will retire as ordinary sometime in the near future, but if you can string the umpteen of thoughts and dreams into one sensible story or fanciful notion, then its the best of the beats. Every word is an allusion that lies within the fascination of mad methods that buy the pusher his legacy. Time sizzles with a serenade that allures people, people join it and they should since Time is the true theme of our toleration- maybe the future will be better or the past has something funnier that you just didn’t catch-hunt for it in the flip-side of your imagination.
Life is a series of fortunate realizations and recognitions. There’s constancy and there’s inconstancy, there’s show and there’s meaning, there’s facts and there’s opinions. Choose always opinions, they’re the most definitive aspect of people and people are the most definitive aspect of the world. The world is the ultimate logic and illusion. Both agony and ecstasy are mere weeds on earth’s population, the original idea is to exist and help others realize the true worth of existence- also to enrich your own through lyrical beauty. Rest not, move onward, shoot one, love another. That’s all. Think about it today, tomorrow and beyond.
Some people chase it, race themselves across the globe to reach where very few people are. But the fact remains that the chasers get all the food, water and land.They’re a larger populace, funnily. So, the people giving out water and food decided against fueling the originals because even if the already unique people are wiped out, one of the dreamily minded chasers will reach there,maybe he will be wise enough to carry hat he found along the journey to sustain himself longer than the frozen, the burnt, and the starved.