And queen to be
Around me like
The ring you want on
The so-called sickness of the ego
Is only the wiggling chaos
The itchiness of a shell too small.
Before the metamorphosis
May our egos
Eye of the lie within reason,
Believe me I don’t understand either.
Some would think it perfect
For me to embrace
The habit of collecting.
I prefer a blanket in the sun
Change has begun.
4 feet to the right and up the staircase
Lies my intellect waiting, getting hot.
Break the frame
And shake the shame
That arises when you finally are
Comparable to nothing else.
It was like, sneaking in and out of the blades of grass, the front yard creatures glowing and shrinking
I am never going to come down from the roof, I like the texture of the ground and the fact that the ground had no wall or ceiling. I cant see very much from where I’m sitting, I like it up here because of how much I can’t see. Reminds me of the sand dunes …. But I feel so torn. I am without my usual stimulators. Pleasure receptors numb from anticipation. A memory capsule explodes. Beat of the passing streetlamps, a scented melody, something like the city after it rains, but fresher sine it was still cold. There was tension, but not the negative type of tension, tension of the collected fantasy and the thought expressions in my mind, mental artistry. Where each image sequence is repeated, but with every new loop there is added a layer. Maybe a mood layer or a chronological layer or a character layer. But I’m scared and my layers have fallen through I cant be anywhere else but the roof. I used to be able to watch and now I am immersed in performance, decisions being made of importance, objectives and goals and reason and truth.
Mechanics and grammar and style mistook. I can’t be anywhere else but the roof. Which may be alright because the streets are flooding
Interesting how things move….
Sometimes you think your mind has the power to kill you….
But a thought without an image is but a feeling
Anti-imaging programs for the mind
:Topics for further expansion
The unreal ness quality
Nets to catch airplanes
An underground museum
The zamboni driver spills his beverage
The crowd was fixated on the squid in the sky. Pumpkin sky and maroon red squid.
The first half ……………………..
The second half needs motive and purpose/ expanding qualities.
Churning upward and downwards
Biting holes in the soil
Ripping solid stone
Artists are overcome with grief
A beautiful structure which served no purpose
Erased from the present
Carried off on the back of the ocean
Walking in razor fields
Lost and blind to the light above
Staring only at each sharpened edge
I cry and sit against paper thin walls
Leaning back I break through and tumble through other walls
Interpersonal relationships changing people’s worlds
Revealing the truth about religion
No guidance = knowing the true self
Authority’s job is to point and show not push and pull
We are in control
Freedom of consciousness
Red green cloud gas brass knuckles contested next to resting employers who are next to signs that say don’t rest on the, there are towels and underwear bras and sleeveless wife beaters hanging from the wire in the sky. Over the buildings, overhead there’s a silence in which howls of children without brothers are crying. A lost picnic is always on time to surrender your life over into the hands of some random tree as if it had outstretched limbs because of you, hah why are you such a selfish thing to think that the growth of this enormous plant was grown for you to land on you know its not true I need to do this more often I just realized that this is another form of meditation. Maybe I can teach myself to type faster or how to make less mistakes and spend less time having to use the backspacebuton. Look it is so strange how bleached but peaceful everything is right now. Like freshly dead ashes, it almost has a warm feeling to it but I know that its freezing cold.
dark tinctured broken somewhat like a bat wing or blown out umbrella. It lay like a piece of trash by the trail.. I’m malgumfloress no need to translate cause its already in your language. Mental sickle tuxedo wrapped around the handle, bow down good sir and serve the tiny ants that balance on the grooved carvings in the flowerpot, ashen flowerpot made out of cement and holding no plants but having that strange dark dirt speckled with white clumps of who knows?
And what captivated you so much about magic? I would have to say the reason is that its hidden but its right in front of you and it permeates to all corners of your perception. Can you give us an example?
Close your eyes and see the brownish black crackling of film. Hear the fuzzy crackle of vinyl. Pips and beeps and boopos. Light that dances but has no form. No shape but a rhythm nonetheless , the color can best be described as the color of a hole. And then a very silent explosion! And your eyes are open and the dancing light hole have become one and begin surrounding your head like a white blood cell gong for the prey. This is the immutable intranslational part of the experience, the things in front of you quietly screaming that every single section of everything, (because its all sections sectioned off) every section is completely unique. All things animate or not have a personality and character . Think of the human being as the tip of a pyramid which can easily see itself but and is exalted in its surroundings but has no sense of what is underneath him or the inverted pyramid above him.
Coming in and out of peripheral experience so fast it ceases to exist but only in the past. …and maybe I’ve lost my audience. But I have just now decided that my audience is to consist of those who find this paper half soaked in the street and look past its obvious bulkiness of print and decide to investigate the code I have presented.
Cmon get sucked through the hourglass of disbelief and blast out the other side.
Messin with me
You’re trying to dpersonalize poetry
Watch out for the scissors
Putting the box around me so I can break out of the box?
belief in foreign obstacles leads to instant relief
what a cliché but hey so is saying cliché today
and rhyming out of place with uneven sentence structure and pace
page master brewing over his spill pot of robot gut stew
to me and you there is no other better tasting stew
than the one made with a
half empty half full of liquid brain of a head of this guy.
Trying to find a story line.
Beneath the perceptions I saw in front of me was the mellow swirl of almost digital proportions and the planets wouldn’t stop spinning for that either. But the plants stood still. But the opium poppy stood still, would probably never even want to try the stuff.
But because of the rain we cannot go to the outdoor show we must go to the indoor throw hole beneath the stove of metal sole sold in ground lantern but psychosis.
SiSittin gtrying to find the inspirational itch…
Such an airy mist
My vision’s almost blue
A sloping curling trellis
Meshed with sinking glow-skies hue
A precious drop of color
Beneath it in the bushes
Humbly vibration pushes
Towards my squishy eye organs
Bouncing back to empty space
But firmly embedding itself
In the galaxy behind my face
I could burn my ten thousand taste buds
I could snort my nasal cavity numb
I could paralyze the nervous superhighway
scream into an amplifier until I’m deaf and dumb
Or I could sit
Sit and let the ceiling of my consciousness
Drift and fade away
Like watching something sink
In a bottomless ocean
The walls next to go because
the ceiling held them in place
Then the floor becomes a vacuum
But this isn’t outer space
Its pouring inward
Melting the whole
Holding together notion
While at the same time
Filling all sections of the circle
Finally not a part of an appraised nation
A relation in which I gain reassurance and elation
For the station of thousands and manifestation of place mark intervention contenders contention place ranking durations
Whew I wonder what that was all about
Where did you really go?
Oh I didn’t go anywhere
This is sandwiched time
Last time you left off was now
Such a sloppy composition
A retarded symphony of symbolic heritage
I’m not going to pretend like I deserve to be last anymore
Eggnog cluster mist
I couldn’t take it any more!
It could make you think its glorious
Pay no attention, to the irrelevant
Connections between what you read here and was you associated
With in your prior knowledge.
Its all in here self explanatory
ITS ONLY US
I could begin, If I did ever begin anything, you know this isn’t going to end either don’t you?
And if you are confused already. I apologize, there aren’t any tricks to the many moods of mechanics , just follow to the end. They all find their way in the end. We need to have something important in here about something people actually want to read about.
When I start thinking thoughts like that it stops my fingers from moving thus stops me from writing thus is an evil force and shall be dealt with in the only way that will truly kill it which Is to ignore it because it has lost all meaning. You know, or should know by now that meaning is what you give it.
Look a window in the blank white wall.
Its nighttime outside but I can hear thousands of birds cheering at echo her in the really tall trees. Do you see the really tall trees. ;underneath the purple sky. The stars are still white but the purple is the sky. The kind of whether that sets the mood for a jazz musician to take you to an incredible high. Here up on the mountain tops with the not quite dead guy on the hot rocks. They stay hot even when the sun goes down. Now your not supposed to stop’
Sing at a gathering because the wood isn’t flammable et. We need some ti\ype of fuel . We need some type of fuel.. Swing bounce jump hop„, fun motion to the beat drop
Some of this advice im getting… makes me laugh a little more at my mission.
Fifteen feet from I-25…
A lost thought shimmers,
Behind red and green translucent tiles.
Stoplights, the guardians of life, mindless flashbulbs
Circuits connecting and disconnecting …
Eyes half closed, but fixed on temporary red bulb,
The same bulb all strangers in cars are connected to.
All except those, connected by the green bulb.
Cowboy with a backpack alone at the bus stop
A balloon tied to a signpost badgers his face
He can’t get rid of this pink nightmare.
A laugh of true hopelessness, not heard but seen
In the creases of his weathered white face
Through the window of my car
And across the intersection
I was not the only observer.
Business man saw it
Grandma lady saw it
Teenage cell phone addict saw it
All reacted by not reacting
Denying the meaning of his batting away
At the bulb of rubber and air in front of him
Denying the meaning of the electric red bulb
The electric green bulb, yellow bulb.
A mad galaxy stretching and kicking above the roof of the sleeping stone cold family. The oldest son still awake playing marionette to the dreamer in the sky. Laying sideways in his bed a waterfall pours out of his chest onto a notebook. He must remember this
I can only describe it as a rainbow mist, not quite a solid not quite a liquid not quite a gas. Surrounding and flowing through everything sticking to our glassy mind bulb surface like fog to a mirror, forming little multicolored condensation ornaments. The beauty of the horizon is the change we meet on its infinite approach. A journey is none other than a molding and reshaping of our awareness and perception.
I’ve got to find which parts of you I’ve polished enough for me to see my reflection in. I want to connect with you on what the heaviness of artificial sunlight feels like. I want to flatter the ensemble of your emotion orchestra. Unconscious maestro, creator of epic unintentional symphonies. I want you to see everything as a transparent liquid. So I’ll begin by using my words:
All but a burst of lightning Carried on the backs of the anthill workers And thrown into the sky by a fit And the red glow of the digital clock Out of the corner of my eye
All but a burst of lightning
Carried on the backs of the anthill workers
And thrown into the sky by a fit
And the red glow of the digital clock
Out of the corner of my eye
Was illuminated by my mind