We gotta get out of this place, if its the last thing we ever do....we gotta get out of this place, cus...girl, there's a better life for me and you.....except without the we, and the girl part...I need some new scenery folks, I can't find anymore inspiration sitting in my tower overlooking the dire end of summer...I need to kneaded...
I am blatant, and blind, conjuring effigy for the horrible little people who rule galaxies with minute iron fists, Tinkerbelle fingers tugging heart strings from the grips of all bucolic evil. There is nothing here for me but the patient virtue of death, and ironically, I am resigned to it, as the very last of after thoughts, my desperation reaches points where a flatline at the ill advice of Satan, seems remote but honest, alas, an answer. I am in a world I have never fathomed, some how stuck at mid float, neither bottoms of the deepest oceans and their crazy glowing mangle toothed vixens tincture, nor the coral reef sea turtle reefer, feel like home, no thermal currents, no vagabond jellyfish, only the hope, of ballast whales whizzing a moving wake stir my yearning. Death circles like my shark. I am not bleeding, nor floundering, I am just treading perpetual water. The tide springs no magic for me; the imaginings of illusive scopes of great hope fall through, the faint voice of contentment muffles itself, red tide under the valium of my washed portrait. These days, this favonian sea, has become deserted.
I find no solace where I used to, the words of the great beats, seem trite, their vagrancy hollow, their voice broken. I used to yearn for their aspiration, begging in the face of indisputable morose, and now, it all bores the holy ransom, like a grave diggers smile. Troubled men, of perspective, if that is what we share, than that is what I will have to accept, there is no chance for redemption, only sacrifice, the orbits of the stars hold no mercy for the comet meeting the gaseous Jupiter, life has no regret, my life, is wilted, cratered, sully, gerrymandered, devout. I tingle for nothing, I dream, and never act, perpetuating infidelity like a man searching for lost marbles.
The maids see not my face, the girls laugh blindly, days become envy, my senses haunted, I have fallen into a paralysis of stigma, an entity of stale virtue, the rose sleeps no softer on my pillow than in my garbage can. There is no great Helen, holding court, there is no great Helen anywhere, there are no wars, there are no giants, there is no dance, and certainly not even a shred of fancy, the delusion kisses me only for sexual prognostication. Ah, trying times, of rotting whimsy, these days of grim persistence, this avid alcoholic world, arid.
No god, welcoming anything, no Jesus but to a hanging penis slapping corpse rot thighs, bent in the wind. No Buddha without, no religion but lie, to be unquestioned in hopeful nothingness, like a dagger unsharpened, useless torture. The faith in bleak change is but my water to freeze between my cracks, my faith in anything is nothing but my time.
I am blatant, and blind, conjuring effigy for the horrible little people who rule galaxies with minute iron fists, Tinkerbelle fingers tugging heart strings from the grips of all bucolic evil. There is nothing here for me but the patient virtue of death, and ironically, I am resigned to it, as the very last of after thoughts, my desperation reaches points where a flatline at the ill advice of Satan, seems remote but honest, alas, an answer. I am in a world I have never fathomed, some how stuck at mid float, neither bottoms of the deepest oceans and their crazy glowing mangle toothed vixens tincture, nor the coral reef sea turtle reefer, feel like home, no thermal currents, no vagabond jellyfish, only the hope, of ballast whales whizzing a moving wake stir my yearning. Death circles like my shark. I am not bleeding, nor floundering, I am just treading perpetual water. The tide springs no magic for me; the imaginings of illusive scopes of great hope fall through, the faint voice of contentment muffles itself, red tide under the valium of my washed portrait. These days, this favonian sea, has become deserted.
I find no solace where I used to, the words of the great beats, seem trite, their vagrancy hollow, their voice broken. I used to yearn for their aspiration, begging in the face of indisputable morose, and now, it all bores the holy ransom, like a grave diggers smile. Troubled men, of perspective, if that is what we share, than that is what I will have to accept, there is no chance for redemption, only sacrifice, the orbits of the stars hold no mercy for the comet meeting the gaseous Jupiter, life has no regret, my life, is wilted, cratered, sully, gerrymandered, devout. I tingle for nothing, I dream, and never act, perpetuating infidelity like a man searching for lost marbles.
The maids see not my face, the girls laugh blindly, days become envy, my senses haunted, I have fallen into a paralysis of stigma, an entity of stale virtue, the rose sleeps no softer on my pillow than in my garbage can. There is no great Helen, holding court, there is no great Helen anywhere, there are no wars, there are no giants, there is no dance, and certainly not even a shred of fancy, the delusion kisses me only for sexual prognostication. Ah, trying times, of rotting whimsy, these days of grim persistence, this avid alcoholic world, arid.
No god, welcoming anything, no Jesus but to a hanging penis slapping corpse rot thighs, bent in the wind. No Buddha without, no religion but lie, to be unquestioned in hopeful nothingness, like a dagger unsharpened, useless torture. The faith in bleak change is but my water to freeze between my cracks, my faith in anything is nothing but my time.
xoxo