(no subject)
"They said they'd give me everything and here's the part that made me laugh: they didn't give me anything, and then they took half of that. Oh, sharpen your teeth and lay flat." ~ Ugly Casanova, "Pacifico"
I'm not precisely angry...I'm just precise, I suppose. I'm tired of this lumbering shell I reside in, and I feel a bit determined to shed it. Stary Dynamos in Night's Machinery don't inspire me just now. Cat Faces in the Pines might. The knives are retracted for now, everything is muffled and muted and gray. "Whatever" ~ the word of the day. No reaching today, just sit back and gaze away, at trivialities that seemed dire yesterday. Yawn hugely, tongue curls, desires abate. Consider a life of nothing. Muse on tossing it all away. Or not even so much as that, more a gradual erosion, decay.
earlier...
5:50am, 30 April 2011
"Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the
Starry dynamo in the machinery of night ~" (Allen Ginsberg, from "Howl")
How far up can you reach? On a night like this, the stars should be well within your grasp. They hang down low, quivering against the near-black background of the sky, or so they seem, through the film of wet in your eyes.
Constance calls nights like these deep nights, but they're anything but. Cadences of philosophical rehashes run through the fingers of your mind like sand, a grain or a few getting caught in the crevices there, to itch and abraid and be worried over.
But only in the lightest sense, you understand. There are no new musings here, no bursts of existentialist epistemological enlightenment that later proves to be bullshit. These nights are paralyzing, it's about the rehash, those diamond stars drive in home: like stakes to your night waking dreams, that this is deja entendu, it's all been done before, by you and another before, and others and others before that. Namaste.
I'm not precisely angry...I'm just precise, I suppose. I'm tired of this lumbering shell I reside in, and I feel a bit determined to shed it. Stary Dynamos in Night's Machinery don't inspire me just now. Cat Faces in the Pines might. The knives are retracted for now, everything is muffled and muted and gray. "Whatever" ~ the word of the day. No reaching today, just sit back and gaze away, at trivialities that seemed dire yesterday. Yawn hugely, tongue curls, desires abate. Consider a life of nothing. Muse on tossing it all away. Or not even so much as that, more a gradual erosion, decay.
earlier...
5:50am, 30 April 2011
"Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the
Starry dynamo in the machinery of night ~" (Allen Ginsberg, from "Howl")
How far up can you reach? On a night like this, the stars should be well within your grasp. They hang down low, quivering against the near-black background of the sky, or so they seem, through the film of wet in your eyes.
Constance calls nights like these deep nights, but they're anything but. Cadences of philosophical rehashes run through the fingers of your mind like sand, a grain or a few getting caught in the crevices there, to itch and abraid and be worried over.
But only in the lightest sense, you understand. There are no new musings here, no bursts of existentialist epistemological enlightenment that later proves to be bullshit. These nights are paralyzing, it's about the rehash, those diamond stars drive in home: like stakes to your night waking dreams, that this is deja entendu, it's all been done before, by you and another before, and others and others before that. Namaste.