There are these times when everything you want to say comes out as something else.
These are the strange times.
This is now.
I was discussing with reality the other day, the other month or maybe even the other year,
and we obviously did not agree.
So I took the long way round and found myself beside the outside,
walking away from time and reason.
These are the strange times.
The world is at such an odd angle.
I find myself walking the dreamline.
Nothing progresses, and yet the summer draws so perilously near with all its adventurous, frivolous days, in which I will be suspended, floating in a sea of sunlight and August rain.
Everyt
Bent and beat, hammered and hardened, shaped insidiously
so as to provide the biggest bang for the buck.
They tell me there is a reason it exists,
but it always boils down to defense
against other people with revolvers.
What if we counted the total number of
holes
made in human bodies by guns?
It is marvellously simple and yet so powerful.
Ironically one of the most well-functioning,
rigorously tested pieces of hardware on the planet.
I am safer firing my revolver than driving my car,
except if I am on the wrong end of the barrel.
What if we counted the total number of
holes
made in human hearts by guns?
I am not saying that
It feels like I'm alive
in a quirky kinda-sorta way.
I think I can taste the sky,
marshmallow hue on a
windy blueberry pie.
I'm a leaf on the wind,
I fell and missed the ground,
watch me soar, my darlings;
through breezy summer smells
I hear my brethren calling.
It really feels like life today
in that quirky kinda-sorta way -
something bubbles in the distance -
there is music out of synch -
now dance the best you can.
Everything falls apart at the seams,
but every seam can be mended.
Just read the invisible stories,
the candid tattoos that every living body wears
as a second skin.
Our marks define us, no matter
which side they are located on,
in or out,
up or down,
if you look for long enough,
there you'll find your map.
Take a deep breath and communicate your findings.
Expect the unexpected.
Follow the sudden smile and keep going.
This might lead you where you want to go.
.. ..
.. ..
.. ..
.. ..
I'm a monkey on a stick.
Watch me dance my little dance,
my bell-shod feet forever tingling,
since everyone fears the silence
of simply being.
A living sea of speckled sameness,
a black-brown-white and yellow-reddish
amalgam of fur and jingles
swaying like torn-up seaweed
in a raging sea,
relentlessly shaken
by the powers that be.
Tingle, jingle, jangle, baby,
zombie monkey menagerie,
Jangle, jingle, tingle, maybe,
we are champions of uncertainty.
We have the will but not the means.
We have the power but lost the reins.
We are an incoherent skein.
Dance, dance, dance, dance,
until we paint the world with veins.
Jingle, j
Hers was the love of his
stories of earth
And his was the love of her
ideas of air.
A compromise entwined.
Without their fragile union
they would have lost
their life.
Hers was the gift of
effortless flight
And she said:
"Would that I could
exchange your eyes for mine,
just for a while, just a single time."
His would be the
world above the clouds
and hers would be
the weight of the sky above.
His was the power
of gravity's pull
And he said:
"Would that I could
exchange your feet for mine,
just for a while, just a single time."
Hers would be the
world beneath the sky,
and his would be
the weightless space below.
Hi
Mondays I get up, grudgingly, slowly. I am expected to. Someone has decided this for me, and if I don't, the world will stop turning. Or some such nonsense. I dislike people making decisions for me, unless they're convenient for me. Hello, world. Meet Ego. I get up, and then I fall down. I get up again, and again, I fall. An hour passes, sometimes more, rarely less. When I say this to people, all I get is 'Why don't you get a better alarm clock?' or my favourite: 'Why don't you just get up?'
Indeed. Why don't I just get up. Fuckers.
For once and for all, I will tell you why. I don't want to. It's not rocket science. I like it down there, wh
Does it get any easier, as hairs grow grey and visions dim,
to accept that not all roads lead to Rome,
but to the Black Caravan
which leads us all
home?
Like water in a drain
we eventually run out
- and where is the damn plug
when you need it?
They say we have a limited number of breaths, of heartbeats.
See me sitting here.
Real quiet.
Another suicidal breath.
Another heartbeats me
closer
to the Black Caravan,
the arrhytmic soundtrack to my escape,
but I am not homesick.
Yet.
The fear of the deat hof you isf rag mental, meaningless in its irrelevance to its own selfishness.
I suspect it doesnt.
Get any easier, that
On the silver shore
Looking for sweet salvation
High above the sky
Through the freezing black
The darkness broken by stars
Searching for Eden
Many thoughts of God
And yet I never met him
Evidence against?
I have my own ways
Of navigating through the void
I don't need a guide
If I get lonely
I orbit a warm body
I stay and I learn
Just the two of us
System on a bed of stars
Spawning little moons
(sometimes breaking the rules a little)
I find my answers
On my voyages like this
On the silver shore
Tic, toc,
deliverance time is now.
As I open the book, I open a mind,
I feel inside, and I like what I find,
it's a piece of the future,
but timeless.
When in the woods, compass
lost
in the night,
I know where to find my
Stardust,
to sprinkle onto the roads ahead.
New light from ages lost,
or ages never existing.
Now I dare lay me down to sleep,
I have pages on which my soul to keep.
And nothing else matters.
Tic, toc,
deliverance time is now.
As I close the book, another opens in my mind,
unwritten.