Wednesday, August 30, 2017

How you know when you're dying

There is a quiet realization that you have come for a purpose,
and missed the mark... so tragically that others have stolen
all your  dreams and have amassed a fortune in doing so.
christ
What can be worse than dying in shame. Jesus Christ...

I would never call your name in vain.

There is a constant rolling of pebbles in the ceiling, and buzzing
in the ears, pain in the middle of the back like a stabbing, brought
to a mild hurt by love hands caressing. Grateful but it grates on
a mind set to madness.  I will never fit in, in a world where might
is right and the victor wins at all cost cuz it's just sport. No retort.

Silence is a retreat to things that cannot be said, said the lamb gone
to slaughter. The greatest love is not a man to a women... it's a women to a...

you know... and if you don't

the world will not make sense to you anymore.

Nevermore, said the raven. His blackness will not shut us up or out.

It will take a tough man to accept a mother's world.

Don't throw pearls to swine, war to the loving is still a crime.

Peace is never won. Lightheartedness is never wrong. Giggles.

I came, I saw, I lived and I loved. I die when i will not be understood.

There is no animosity deep in the wood. A Fairy tale... misunderstood.





Monday, August 28, 2017

KINDERGARTEN AT THE HINTERGARTEN

ALL CAPS?! MERCY ME... let's take this down a peg.
Cleansing breath ... like a yoga mantra for the young
and indoctrinated. A maat, a mat, like a door mat or a
church mouse... little, scared, and willing to snatch crumbs
for sport and sustenance. A small life... getting by. Waiting for
the sleep where there is permission to dream, as a renegade.

Here we are, needs an escape hatch for the truth is too great
a burden to bear, sayeth the march of a crazy hare. So a tea
party was in order, eh? lip service and a milk mustache, life is hard
 so get a helmut... so the germans would have you believe.

Why can I quote TV and ad jingles better than hissstory. Who's story?

I heard the news of horror, but child heart of mine saw the bovine
quietly walking through the floods to higher ground. So silent, so
beautiful. Is there really any words that can make a horror right?

A silent walk of intuition to seek higher ground from the rising danger of flood waters needs no words. A beautiful testament that a child's heart
can fully understand. I bow to the bovine, in the back garden. Keep
moving forward... or drown in the pasture.

A lesson to stake what could not be herd or cowed. Mu knows water.










Sunday, August 27, 2017

Crooked style

The columns were carved with straight lines, and after the Dorrit, hiccupp,
I mean Doric, there were some curvy wavy leaves on high. Groovy and outrageous were those architects, or archetypes. Chez chic, or guevara, or whatever. Valley of the jolly green... Dolly. Move on wheels.

There was a dragon in the belly of a giant whale, hiccup... in the clouds.

I saw it like the rainbows that offer high hope to the hopeless who will look up but pray down where the humans dwell. in the darkness of a wishing well.

The price is always right to the highest bidder, you know... the one with with biggest cajones. Go figure and hide in the hedges and whimp whisper to the bully... bombastic plastic of the age of the war machine, hiccupp, I mean the washing machine to whitewash a wormwood world. Cern, we're looking at you...lol. Go find god, there is an infinite iteration of his Almighty Intent... Hiccup.

I live here and i search for answers amongst the silent sadness,
painting the sky with imagination to pique intuition. All logic has been
put in its place. robots safe in tacky, i mean techkki schemes, hiccup... techno
streams. life is a knot frayed under seems. So I sew, saw, sow. See?

Wanderers don't seek a straight and narrow path... art is a slippery slope to climb or fall. go ask a artist. there are no straight answers.

 "I'm down with that, said a crooked smile... from a lonesome learning crocodile.

The crocus is a light bulb flower... aha in the spring is its light-hearted power.




  



Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Chirping of the Raptor

i walk alone in nature, amongst the sorry of the sad.

humans glorious and intimidated by the cowardly bad.

as the ignominious leader would say, "sad".

The raptor chirps a scurrilous tune, always at the behest
of a surreptitious gloom. (an awakened thought by a waif
of the moon). Stone cold buffoon. Monsoon... said the rune.

The raptor raps his song to weaken his prey.
Talons are not cute, time is in disarray,
though there is much to weep for, i hold sentimental
reasons to keep those thoughts at bay.

Screeching silently at raptors is my night of the day,

they sound so pathetic

the raptor,

and the rapture of them

blew me far and fast away.

Oh happy day.