Days slip away like this.
She's moving fast and her eyes look insane, muttering something about life's bane. People see her everywhere, don't know how to approach her, "you need a life coach to a another planet", coffee's starting to taste bitter, same as when our opinions differ, out of your mouth and into the drain, "harc the herald angels sing", sweetness translates too late and she propogates prophecies we'll never see aslong as we believe we see as clearly as we define our sanity. Preacher's test the ears of time, bitterness will only kill the proprietor's mind. Choose your rules and run, make haste to the beaten path, kiss goodbye to the washed up raft, forget your troubles and have the last laugh.
Hope (As it is)
No pages left to cry for help, forgot my master, left him behind. Last cigarette signals a change in faith, He's preaching about a satisfied mind now and somehow I can't find my way back now, footsteps lead round in circles, time wont stands still and I wonder what it is I feel...
Busy minds, mechanical thoughts, ones and naughts, beeping pockets and musical lockets, aspiration toolkits, lists of lists I should have lists for and another one for what list to adore, payed for cool with magnetic strips and electronic lips, Super low calorie 100% poly unsaturated fat free organic mastermind soup made by masterminds for "masterminds", choosing between ID cards and the year 1984 whilst considering the law about possesion of four or more of these pills I adore, shopping no longer a chore just click on your star sign and the next 50 years shopping is predicted for you by a woman who's hair is blue and uses very few sentences without the word "new", land title deeds for the moon being sold on Ebay, life time garantee and a "free cosmic key for you and your family".
Two worlds collide.
We stop to decide who's weak, where to look and what words to speak. I say we're all stranded here but you don't hear, deafened by fear and a secret desire to leave, steer clear and save your secrecy from becoming clear to me because concerned as you are that this will end in tragedy I think you've failed to see that I'm over that part of me and just want to hear someone else speak about the reality, confirm my sanity so i can decide which way to leave.
Sign of the times.
The beaten track is fading and your compass is confused, the matches are wet and all the water has been used. Baylifts knocking at your door they have all three names you use, ignoring you and that crying baby, and that trial is up for drug abuse. Nonchalance is no longer cool, nonchalance makes you the fool.
I'm about myself.
Clearly influenced by that existentialist movement in which the words you're reading are directly related to the words written. Pretencious undertones and references to itself that only bare repeating. Trying to be something remarkable and in turn only being something worth remarking on. And all the while you know it's only a bit of larking going on. Value gained from the attention I've been given and which can only continue to grow despite everyone being in the know. Because you just wanted to show that you can see through what is painfuly obvious to everyone else.
One fine day.
All along the cliff's edge, a thousand failed proposals and the fisherman with his wide eyes singing of the debutante's fine day...
''She's got her mind set, and it ain't anywhere close to you, she's dreaming of the man on the moon, she's dreaming of a time afternoon when the sky is black and the tide is high, and the man of her dreams is out to play, oh that fine day, that fine day.''
Cliffs are empty now and the fisherman counts his catch, utters something that seems to move with the tide and leaves with a smile and a look like he's got nothing to hide.
Tell Your Ma, Tell Your Pa,
Our Loves Are Gonna Grow Ooh-wah, Ooh-wah.
He looked at me and said 'sign of the times kid', and I laughed.
Oh yonder comes her six white horses and that devil smile.
Moths are burning.
The doc he's shining my shoes, he never tried harder than that to help me kill the blues. Somewhere else is my lover, she's promising me an easier time, I dunno why. She's wearing her favorite dress, the one that catches flies. Doc has told me to go home now, I'm not sure where he expects me to go. The harmonica player down the street has asked me for some money to eat, I handed him a record player and told him I've got someone to meet. My lover she's sipping away my pain, found her in Agy town palace where the Lawers are playing, They don't know I'm here, I left without saying goodbye, She'll find me again somewhere, Picking my tie. Meanwhile life goes on, the doc has found his miracal cure, if anything a money lure, though he sounds so sure, tells me to swallow three of these pills and sip chicken milk, I look at him and ask im if he's crazy, not sure what I expected him to say but his response was somewhat lazy, I swallowed the pills and knocked back his gin, all of a sudden my my belly caves in and the doc shouts out 'there you go! you're thin!'... I couldn't help but stare at him, said thankyou sir, this ain't no sin. Now it's time to get ready for that church parade, the bells are ringing and I feel like I'm late, So I run to the tailor ask him to do his job, he hands me a book and say's 'go find god', this aint right I need a suit, I look up and he's playing a flute, I grab the tux, high tail it to the tie rack, and what do you know, she's on my back, she looks at me three times in the eyes, asks where the rest of me is I say he died. She grabs her dress and we make it on time, the priest tells us we're not to commit a crime, hands us a certificate, it says we love untill we die, so now I'm hers and she wants to fly...
Stuck with this.
That awkward air and something like a stare, she's so aware that this aint fair. These fallow times are hers not mine. Church bells seem not to mean the same thing I'm seeing and priest's promises of divine infinity are teasing.
Bronze eyes and silver twine, lying infront of mine, take what you can find and design the rest in mind as she does to your soul what man did to black gold and diamond coal.
Soon they will find the promise land and take Saint Thomas to where Jesus stands and laugh at him like she laughed at you when all you could do is believe in her.
Isn't it like time to stand so still when you're feeling ill? She's so weary now and somehow she still finds space to remember your old ways. Something about that disparaging smile that says she want's to play.
And yeah, that wont go away.
Her lady friend.
Crimson tears do fall for you, Clouds bloom and mourn we do,
Thus smoke, Thus fire, This is her paranoia.
Einstien wasn't listening when you begged him for the stars, His diary conveniently placed, where generals aim and fire.
In the garden where angels whisper, Librarians issue death penalties, and Santa is cleaning dishes because the kids aint got those trees. Miss Monroe with her devil gaze and her awkward ways, sings Happy birthday like her better days to the man that sold the united states for a chance to gaze at Russian ballet.
The Arrival.
Remember the warmth
Remember the darkness
Remember the silence
Love her for the memory
Hate her for the memory
The loudness of silence created by gaps in her love, the pressure of freedom exciting the senses of which their use is yet to be decided...
I...
I am...
Am I?...
I feel as though this black on which my thoughts are projected is something I should question...
How is it I am seeing yet not seeing at all?
What is seeing? Is this darkness? If so then what is light?
The faint glow of red when warmth becomes apparant and discomfort becomes a memory seems to me to be the answer.
I differentiate between comfort and discomfort with such ease, and I know which I prefer, what is prefer?
Is this red warmth? I like red, red is something in which I feel as though I am feeling, but what is feeling? is warmth feeling in itself or simply a part of it? Will I have other feelings? Is discomfort a feeling? And if so is it black? I am not warm when discomfort consumes me and red is not apparant when I am not warm. Perhaps this discomfort is a sign of things to come?
For this warmth feels as though it is not the only thing in existance, perhaps beyond this black is something other...
Am I to anticipate something other? How do I anticipate such that is unknown? What is it to anticipate? Where does it come from? am I to search for the something other or does it seek me?
Wait, what is this?
What is this sound? These sounds I string together so effortlessly in which feelings become apparant, I'll call these sounds 'Thoughts'...
But there are other sounds, that are not part of me, muffled by the darkness that consumes me, as though beyond this darkness is something, something loud and colourful, I hope there is more red out there, where ever 'out there' is.
Silence is but a memory for me now, how can I retrieve something that requires no thought, when did I start to think? Why am I thinking? Why is why? What is why? Oh I do hope anticipation is justified, I just don't understand how justification arrives when I feel as though I am stopped, maybe I should move...
Oh thank you girl for trying so hard, this illusion will miss you something rotten.
Somewhere over the rainbow...
I used to be beautiful!!! But I still look the same?
I used to be funny!!! But now I'm to blame?
I used to be intelligent!!! But now I'm insane?
What is this trickery that has risen to fame?
Is that you Logic? Playing this game?
of course, it's impossible to swallow the possibility that you've confused insecurity with arrogance all your life.
If I carry on doing acid...
You're just gonna see me in the middle of the nevada talking to a cactus about the importance of 'verbal semiotics'(gotta love homebrew theories) and how the use of subjective language is simply a means of reconfirming one's reality and indeed sanity based on the confirmation, that you are indeed talking in a relative manner, from an external party.
Otherwise you're fucked.
Hmm....
Well it's funny in that overtly existentialist
But it means something, I assure you.
The worst thing I ever did was think so much I realised what kind of people my parents were.
Thats it, I'm starting to think this is bigger than I had initialy thought possible. Memories of a once content self are forming and I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that The Internet is killing me and replacing my soul with an "I", something far less concerned with aspiration, something consumed with contrived inhabition, who's only goal is to mimic a preconcieved notion of a reality, based entirely on the subjective outlook I once had.
A parody of my former self, no doubt.
One that exists soley in a realm where time and space are irrelevant, Einsteines theory of relativity and Newton's law of motion are obsolete and all that matters is the portrayal of existance through static images and articulating "I think therefore I am" through printed words.
I'm gonna go take a walk... Ta
P.S
I'll be back.
Russian doll syndrome, got her thinking a loud...
Lover, she's well known down where the green is over grown and the men speak in a harmonious tone, delight on loan and for the lesser it's just shown, but no touching for those.
happy birthday me, have decided to go traveling alone, gonna start out in europe and hopefully make it to north africa.
Woo I'm excited.