That neon shine, corner of my eye, breathless, fly, future, nigh, that sharpest line, that blinding light, flash swallow, mine. Moon City, rise from that moment, drink deep from what was and will be, run the network dreams out of the dark.
Gather the driftwood, the smooth curves of our lifeblood. Break the branches that are no longer needed for breathing. Tear down the walls of where he used to live, that decrepit red cabin, you know, in the dark of the woods. Strike the light. Watch the shadows learn to dance. Tend that fire. The heart, the core, the spark. It will drink until you are gone.
It has been a century, a millennium, an eternity, a moment but since dawn. Old eyes on a new world, burnt, but not regrown. This lay underneath, all along, this fetid rot, this ever smiling skinless face, of greed and power lust. Guns in the woods. Loose, ravenous, from the dark.
Round and round and round she goes,
circling the drain, circling the drain,
the art of perpetual motion embodied,
tantalizing the heart of slender glass,
shadow play through condensation,
the sign of recent loss and future thirst,
never stopping, never escaping,
circling, circling, circling.
When the glass is crushed
in desperation or in rage,
she flits to the next,
butterfly phantom,
who cannot be drowned,
no matter the poison.
She is intoxication,
the wild eyes, the edge
of bliss and despair, dark paths
into mechanical sunlight,
the transformation of meaning
into temporal progression.
The damage that can never be paid for.
She is the il
Memories of you
in a zebra dress,
radiant with irony and
damp with the sweat
of new dawn -
the futility
of driving a wild animal
to drink and dine and
dance to any expectations
without a native rhythm
stirring in the rancor
that fell upon your face.
I was not the good man
I mistook myself for,
thoughts legion,
rebelling
against their own
foundation.
Idols tumble from their pedestals
and become the dust we walk upon.
From dust the clay, the salt, the earth
rise and grow the new horizon.
Let them fall and walk unshadowed.
I have no power left
from the wide-eyed attempt
at changing the course
of the river.
There is no time left
to sow the seeds
for forests
in my future.
In the dreamscape
there is no vision left
of the right way
to sail for death.
It will simply come to this,
the journey home,
the nothingness,
the peace.
I set out to test the waters
and push my limits,
but the depths were hungry,
and the limits fluid,
far too close to shore.
All the complexities,
the terror and the pain,
flooded the brain,
drowning the fact
that happiness can only rise
from deep within.
It is your own damn job
to learn how to swim.
So it seems that
as the years go by
like autumn leaves
in snaking rivers,
the sense of distance
is swallowed by the sea.
So it seems that
there are no perfect circles,
only jagged lines
folding on themselves.
So it seems that
a human body
is simply matterless
from violent beginning
to the simple sweetness
of the end.
Reality never bends
to human expectation,
it simply does its thing
and becomes the consequences.
At times it blossoms perfecly
in the gardens of our creation,
but when it dies and rots away,
we may have been the poison.
No result is guaranteed,
even when thoroughly tested,
but life is all but barren
without the seed of risk.
And in the end,
strange beauty grows
from feeling things
big enough to break you.