Post by delicate on Mar 7, 2012 18:48:59 GMT -5
More lucky states of flush than your tongue could ever decay, she said
You take from the salvation of divided alterations, and names in a collective
Gathering, Disperse, Shepherd, Story teller
The caring, looped things. Now, then, no-time; chopped chronology.
The protesting few never stay, curls and currents don’t keep him sedentary
Recruit the masses, they don’t care for him much anyway,
or for the questions they ask of him, of the smoke signals
and the red slaughter marks on his licked boots from fetid, caring deep emissions.
Guilt and the guilty, standard issue, I have none of them and they do not love me.
Pale pills and an infinity of possible spiraling hopelessnesses;
The hatred of the wounded creature, a love of all the things that make him this twisted, confused many-faced thing that he does not recognise.
He has no eyes to recognise it by, no mouth of his own to call it a liar. The circus moves on without him as he is undone, wearing someone else’s face and a man’s suit in this violent beauteous reflective cabaret.
These old men dine alone and he, the traveller, steeped in archaic roots do not stop to bid them a fair death or a brackish old age. So many connectives and linked loosely, alone, an infinity of faces in unbalanced loyalties. Leaping from ink to blood and corrosive, contorted set faces.
Classified documents, the Actor, a cross section of his hands is much like the cross section of his face; worn and well lied to. Arm the revolution, repeat it, it’s better now that it’s fighting for nothing. A war to end all wars, the one we fight against our own skins, save it for the bedroom, she said. Better to be broken than to be breaking.
A subconscious. The society of song music, just play it again, again, again, again, off beat and out of key. Sing. Something is happening, but it’s over before you have a chance to join the riots of colour. Make the most of forgery before it becomes a power unto it’s self. Laugh, and be laughed at. Slip from mockery to melody, from melody to metaphor and from metaphor to chaos, and in chaos he dances. The pills help of course, all these leering, luring medicines make him ill and waking.
Picket fenced crimes, involved deaths, temporary insanity. These sweet, orgasmic murders toy with his mind as he tries to sleep, while he is being someone other than this creature that he has known himself to be. A thing, creature fears, common criminal.
So he spews onto the paper until he doubles over with the weight of it, guilt, a subconscious, as his mother sleeps and tears at the things her children don’t know about. He breaks it to airy nothings in his palms, a melody, until the double skinned, split foolish chords in his borrowed notepad dance. An infinity in his hands, bent and completely his own. Crack his spine, because he does not understand the archetype of the people.
Bored. They are all so very, very bored by themselves selves, the yearning to be more and yet to be nothing at all. He pleads genius, but genius consumes, and with it’s damp blue flame is it’s self consumed, by it’s self. He cannot be that which he is surrounded by, and that which he is made from.
He cannot speak,
He cannot cry
He cannot be what they are, or what they want of him,
And so he worries at the seams in his head, and despises.
These are children’s stories to be improved, bags of useless melodies, warped glass, he can never be his mother’s son. There are no signs. There are only minor deaths of major lives, a stolen thing, flimsy, gritted, personal cover ups. One more hidden mannerism, he looks sad, in his billions of companions walking alone by his side as he smokes. Alone, in a crowd of millions, and he looks sad. They can turn it on and off, at parties, their chopped laughing and consumption, he wonders how they do it. Wonders how they can become themselves so easily, how they don’t tear themselves to shreds and simply return to ashes. Simple truth rids, rot mutters backstage, sincerity is a by product.
Never create; he has learned as much. Creations are an extension of the self, and therefore not to be trusted. Do not burn your creations; for the smoke will surely fill up your lungs with truth and choke you. Do not bury the body of your making, for the trees that grow there will surely bear poison fruits.
Hide them.
Hate them.
Photograph them.
Do not let them touch your skin, for they will surely reshape the landscape that you have come to call ‘me’.
He’s just the same as nobody else when it comes to these unforgiving, seasonal corpses. He pays his respects, and with shaking hands consumes the loose, curvile associations. The inability to be anything other than the self, a stepping stone, the back of her front, the reluctant show.
The pride and joy of his father and mother, he thinks as the cigarette bites into his cells, and the medicines press flush against his bones. How glad he is that they are too dead to see him now. Oh, the medicines, the dreaming kept up giggle-fits of the girl with too much blood. How he hates her so, how he wishes to put her in a jar and inspect her from time to time, take her out and singe her skin with his own, because she has seen him, and she knows him. She is not him, and he will not be her limbs
He’s unable to watch, a monotone, a yellow, shake legged shell of voice. The medicines have become him, and he lives by them.
Now, pick up your voice from the trample of lovers that have called it to their chests, clean it with your sleeve, and invite it into your self. Do not let these things take you from yourself, the self, turn everything into insular poetry in your hands. Take them from things of little meaning and even less worth, and make them whole. Consume, and be consumed.
Listen.
Hear.
Leave, and sing.
Sing of it all.
You take from the salvation of divided alterations, and names in a collective
Gathering, Disperse, Shepherd, Story teller
The caring, looped things. Now, then, no-time; chopped chronology.
The protesting few never stay, curls and currents don’t keep him sedentary
Recruit the masses, they don’t care for him much anyway,
or for the questions they ask of him, of the smoke signals
and the red slaughter marks on his licked boots from fetid, caring deep emissions.
Guilt and the guilty, standard issue, I have none of them and they do not love me.
Pale pills and an infinity of possible spiraling hopelessnesses;
The hatred of the wounded creature, a love of all the things that make him this twisted, confused many-faced thing that he does not recognise.
He has no eyes to recognise it by, no mouth of his own to call it a liar. The circus moves on without him as he is undone, wearing someone else’s face and a man’s suit in this violent beauteous reflective cabaret.
These old men dine alone and he, the traveller, steeped in archaic roots do not stop to bid them a fair death or a brackish old age. So many connectives and linked loosely, alone, an infinity of faces in unbalanced loyalties. Leaping from ink to blood and corrosive, contorted set faces.
Classified documents, the Actor, a cross section of his hands is much like the cross section of his face; worn and well lied to. Arm the revolution, repeat it, it’s better now that it’s fighting for nothing. A war to end all wars, the one we fight against our own skins, save it for the bedroom, she said. Better to be broken than to be breaking.
A subconscious. The society of song music, just play it again, again, again, again, off beat and out of key. Sing. Something is happening, but it’s over before you have a chance to join the riots of colour. Make the most of forgery before it becomes a power unto it’s self. Laugh, and be laughed at. Slip from mockery to melody, from melody to metaphor and from metaphor to chaos, and in chaos he dances. The pills help of course, all these leering, luring medicines make him ill and waking.
Picket fenced crimes, involved deaths, temporary insanity. These sweet, orgasmic murders toy with his mind as he tries to sleep, while he is being someone other than this creature that he has known himself to be. A thing, creature fears, common criminal.
So he spews onto the paper until he doubles over with the weight of it, guilt, a subconscious, as his mother sleeps and tears at the things her children don’t know about. He breaks it to airy nothings in his palms, a melody, until the double skinned, split foolish chords in his borrowed notepad dance. An infinity in his hands, bent and completely his own. Crack his spine, because he does not understand the archetype of the people.
Bored. They are all so very, very bored by themselves selves, the yearning to be more and yet to be nothing at all. He pleads genius, but genius consumes, and with it’s damp blue flame is it’s self consumed, by it’s self. He cannot be that which he is surrounded by, and that which he is made from.
He cannot speak,
He cannot cry
He cannot be what they are, or what they want of him,
And so he worries at the seams in his head, and despises.
These are children’s stories to be improved, bags of useless melodies, warped glass, he can never be his mother’s son. There are no signs. There are only minor deaths of major lives, a stolen thing, flimsy, gritted, personal cover ups. One more hidden mannerism, he looks sad, in his billions of companions walking alone by his side as he smokes. Alone, in a crowd of millions, and he looks sad. They can turn it on and off, at parties, their chopped laughing and consumption, he wonders how they do it. Wonders how they can become themselves so easily, how they don’t tear themselves to shreds and simply return to ashes. Simple truth rids, rot mutters backstage, sincerity is a by product.
Never create; he has learned as much. Creations are an extension of the self, and therefore not to be trusted. Do not burn your creations; for the smoke will surely fill up your lungs with truth and choke you. Do not bury the body of your making, for the trees that grow there will surely bear poison fruits.
Hide them.
Hate them.
Photograph them.
Do not let them touch your skin, for they will surely reshape the landscape that you have come to call ‘me’.
He’s just the same as nobody else when it comes to these unforgiving, seasonal corpses. He pays his respects, and with shaking hands consumes the loose, curvile associations. The inability to be anything other than the self, a stepping stone, the back of her front, the reluctant show.
The pride and joy of his father and mother, he thinks as the cigarette bites into his cells, and the medicines press flush against his bones. How glad he is that they are too dead to see him now. Oh, the medicines, the dreaming kept up giggle-fits of the girl with too much blood. How he hates her so, how he wishes to put her in a jar and inspect her from time to time, take her out and singe her skin with his own, because she has seen him, and she knows him. She is not him, and he will not be her limbs
He’s unable to watch, a monotone, a yellow, shake legged shell of voice. The medicines have become him, and he lives by them.
Now, pick up your voice from the trample of lovers that have called it to their chests, clean it with your sleeve, and invite it into your self. Do not let these things take you from yourself, the self, turn everything into insular poetry in your hands. Take them from things of little meaning and even less worth, and make them whole. Consume, and be consumed.
Listen.
Hear.
Leave, and sing.
Sing of it all.