Wire Steel and Stone (drop down)
It stole away another truth that stood for living, and not another quiet suicide. Camped on the bends, and losing all flavor, he dives into the depths while I stand and watch him, down the river, with my quiet knowledge and silent foresight. It was there an age ago but he doesn't remember. Only I do, being the logical one, and having removed the blindfold from my eyes. Times change they say, but this time is not changed, these people are not, save a few. And fewer still are vocal there, in this den of demons and their dirge savants.
A beautiful lie rests there, with the blood on the flower petals in an empty garden, angular ressurection, another meaningless word, all they see is 'fuck', a crass cyclical cairne for all we believe in, and its all I can do to keep from vomiting, to trick myself into knowing something else, an else I know to be false, but still consumed, accepting death with open hands. It always sweeps back to cold reprieve, a dark thick serpent demanding what I cannot give.
An empty room, with two windows, 8 stories above the street, a dusty sterility hanging above the floor, an old armchair stands there, with a deep thought resting on it's tongue. It sits a while, an age, while generations live and die through its body. Staring at the sprinkler on the 12 foot sky, that never stirs, moonlight streams through window one, solid as stone, while window two reflects a colder dusk lit trauma. The chair delves into deeper possibilities, its skin peeling to reveal in places a stark skeleton.
Johnson, all the while, sitting in the corner feigning confusion, sees upon the chair salvation, a piece of brass wire. Enthralled, poor Johnson, pale and drawn, rocks back and forth, a manic smile spreads across his face, a pair of glasses, lenses lost a time before, rest upon his nose, and there they sat. The calculator and the needles and the nils, all rest within his sweaty palms, when he still dreams. And taken with him, aa seed falls from above, then occuring, burst into a strange steel flower, leaves and petals razortine, regarding Johnson sarcastically with a bleeding heart. Fair friend, a misplaced shred of wayworn paper, flows in front of razortine, and there became three, though pained, and Johnson longed for unity. Johnson stood, grasping a section of wall, and began to step, the chair dismayed, a keeper going up, and coming ever closer, perhaps its work for naught, Johson stood upon the chair, reaching for the sky, blindly feeling for completion; the chair falls to ash, but Johnson stands there still, hands searching for an answer, when his eyes failed. Compelled, he stands, and looks from window one, peering down into the abyss, where cars still thunder on, he gasps for air, again searching, to the chair he leaps, last pillar of his long lost life, and he thought God was there before, but there he is, as Johnson plunges deeper, a look of pain upon his face, and Johnson, needle in his hand, derives from pain a certain pleasure, an abrasive touch. Johnson lies upon the floor, his eyes will never blink again, his arms wrapped round the razortine, in his hand a brass wire, and in his heart a failed memory. There chair rests, a perch for flies, and ponders more, though mostly lies, and rapidly do the billboards change, from window number two; again the armchair rests alone, a deep thought on it's tongue, and revelation in it's heart.
A beautiful lie rests there, with the blood on the flower petals in an empty garden, angular ressurection, another meaningless word, all they see is 'fuck', a crass cyclical cairne for all we believe in, and its all I can do to keep from vomiting, to trick myself into knowing something else, an else I know to be false, but still consumed, accepting death with open hands. It always sweeps back to cold reprieve, a dark thick serpent demanding what I cannot give.
An empty room, with two windows, 8 stories above the street, a dusty sterility hanging above the floor, an old armchair stands there, with a deep thought resting on it's tongue. It sits a while, an age, while generations live and die through its body. Staring at the sprinkler on the 12 foot sky, that never stirs, moonlight streams through window one, solid as stone, while window two reflects a colder dusk lit trauma. The chair delves into deeper possibilities, its skin peeling to reveal in places a stark skeleton.
Johnson, all the while, sitting in the corner feigning confusion, sees upon the chair salvation, a piece of brass wire. Enthralled, poor Johnson, pale and drawn, rocks back and forth, a manic smile spreads across his face, a pair of glasses, lenses lost a time before, rest upon his nose, and there they sat. The calculator and the needles and the nils, all rest within his sweaty palms, when he still dreams. And taken with him, aa seed falls from above, then occuring, burst into a strange steel flower, leaves and petals razortine, regarding Johnson sarcastically with a bleeding heart. Fair friend, a misplaced shred of wayworn paper, flows in front of razortine, and there became three, though pained, and Johnson longed for unity. Johnson stood, grasping a section of wall, and began to step, the chair dismayed, a keeper going up, and coming ever closer, perhaps its work for naught, Johson stood upon the chair, reaching for the sky, blindly feeling for completion; the chair falls to ash, but Johnson stands there still, hands searching for an answer, when his eyes failed. Compelled, he stands, and looks from window one, peering down into the abyss, where cars still thunder on, he gasps for air, again searching, to the chair he leaps, last pillar of his long lost life, and he thought God was there before, but there he is, as Johnson plunges deeper, a look of pain upon his face, and Johnson, needle in his hand, derives from pain a certain pleasure, an abrasive touch. Johnson lies upon the floor, his eyes will never blink again, his arms wrapped round the razortine, in his hand a brass wire, and in his heart a failed memory. There chair rests, a perch for flies, and ponders more, though mostly lies, and rapidly do the billboards change, from window number two; again the armchair rests alone, a deep thought on it's tongue, and revelation in it's heart.