Saturday, April 30, 2016
Monday, April 25, 2016
Friday, April 22, 2016
Monday, April 18, 2016
from the cave, a footprint
Book of the Fallen Blood Moon
Chapter 6: An avalanche of unnecessary metal and dust
With combustible defeat and
contained violence he rose from grey stained ashes,
an insolent ferine with
contempt curling his nose and opening
his mouth slightly to sneer
he croaked and tossed about and
he had burnt his mouth on the necessary lies of the peoples life
he spit and looked around and
saw the glow of broken trashy golden garbage shining in the sun
there were several thrones scattered
about, severed and cracked, devoid of loves illusory residue
With his empty and newly
awakened consciousness he probed old shadows in memories photo
he buried in on the emphatic
claustrophobia of distress that had been eating away his original joy
prior to finding himself alive,
he had been a suppression of pressure with an unknown creed
like an avalanche of dirt and
gravel shaped like a head, he blew the sputter over a stump
life caved , chopped words
became true, the addiction turned to
morbid rails leading the sun
Insect variation cast doubt on his
crazy unrelenting need to enter the beautiful
like coins in the grating and
nothing to eat, eyes crying memories and his hands wanted mother
with the wind trees willowing
and whooping and cawing to be free and not give a damn
and he remembered there were
birds in there, pinned by the hole &
there was an ant on his way
through the sunburst dusk
His mind cleared up of the wax
bushes and thorn, the saints prayed in the flickering catacombs
residue apologies, axes and
wood, the clean sound of guitar buzz in alien headphones
no one and nothing came back to
haunt the spaces of the called
frogs sounded from the pines
and wet moss fluttered in the chemical darkness
lines waved subjectively
between elder thoughts woven into the invisible framework
The subterranean hold had
engulfed his body, his head and it itched
it reminded him he was alive
imprisoned but alive and it
felt wonderful again
like all the sinister effluent
of the hum drum day to day just up and fucking vanished
some exotic ambrosia or a somnambulant
drugged relaxation, all the way to his bones
He couldn’t pin it from a
distance, they and their masks, his mask
ah but the people, the people,
he loved them all
the necessary yoke and chain,
the occasion of one’s head driving through the world
the bludgeon of the self, broken
honesty, real karma, dreams that lead to peace
a way with the voice and turning
of the giant blue earth
but still he saw, turnstile
masks worn for the sighted brethren, and we strutted
all relations, a cavalcade of
masquerading dogs singing a hopeless elegy for all
& dancing along the horizon
of the earth, like clowns made for a reality that isn’t
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)