Expression = noisserpmI

Pence three

Anthill, tree

And queen to be

Around me like

The ring you want on

Her finger

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

Become Eggos

there-is-no-discordian-society:

I

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

Watching laughing

Change has begun.

4 feet to the right and up the staircase

Lies my intellect waiting, getting hot.

About to

Break the frame

And shake the shame

That arises when you finally are

Comparable to nothing else.

by curizen

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

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other’s welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self. 
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life.

- Derek Walcott

: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

Historians weep

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.

On the beach at night alone,

As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,

As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef

      of the universes and of the future.

A vast similitude interlocks all,

All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons,

     planets,

All distances of place however wide,

All distances of time, all inanimate forms,

All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or

     in different worlds,

All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, 

     the brutes,

All nations, all colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,

All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or 

     any globe,

All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,

This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,

And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose

     them.

Walt Whitman

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?

Generator

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

brew

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…