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Beginners luck 9:31 p.m. 2005-12-13 Direlect, this dire tone evanescent and irrelevant that echoes inside your head as you sit there, silent. It was like the tides had turned and washed you out leaving the shady shattered windows and a quiet sense of nothing. So you sat on the balcony with the sun in your face and your hands reaching out to stroke that placid, languid shape arcing out of your imagination and into some cancerous representation of my face. A failure to exist as something stable and powerful enough to become constant. Delaying probability and transiet scapes of color and water i was a failure to represent hope. And as the clouds continue their mindless, endlessly indulgent cyclical selfdestruction you sit so still like beauty and pain locked in timeless travesty. Such things were never meant to coexist and I find that i have lost some sense of self and some vague semblance of that nonlinear entity is manifesting itself in the wind as you sit like the dead sit and wait for something good to come. While the water falls overhead and feverish shouts blast into continuem and void beyond your frigid features, as the cities numb and the halos of light that were nigh on celestial fade out of the nightsky circling this city it makes no sense that the night fades to sleep and the sun is locked in negligence. And as the tide draws out that balcony will collapse, your tyranny and selfishness of self, the way you hoard that pain as the fragrent, nonsensical realizations of the poets and the fools as that woodwork collapses the frame will become clear in a focus of haze and blending of reality with blur to recreate your own false stream of consious fantasy. And as the words pour out from you shlter ended the meanings will lose focus and you will realize that there is some fucking sense of censorship lurking within your own brain I write and I write and I write but the words freeze in my throat and come out flawed. back & forth |