the ephor
it is a terrible fate to die among the waves
there is no organized crew
the compass spins on the ghost ship
the winds are yearning and stroke the tattered sails
that used to be ripe with the possibility of direction
although the creaking boards often sailed under cloud-covered nights
the ink of the space drenched all surfaces
and bled in between all desires.
every dark-age is suspended between the two burning finger-tips of the past and future.
our brows used to be permanently arched
and all our brains existed to inquire
to be curious about the carcass in the open
we did not hunt the living.
we are still the jackal. the fly. the vulture.
the man. he burrows. the monster.
the whisp of condensed madness cleansing the ignorant and helpless
with anchors of guilt and definitions of prosperity.
and we writhe. but some are stagnant in a swamp
of grease covered microchips
playing and producing in excrement-rich sand
swiftly being sucked into the bottom chamber
of our friend, the hour glass.
the understanding of time as a beginning
falling and collapsing into an end
is projected onto a screen made round and compressed
by stelllar malice for the viewing pain of laughing morals
and the all-powerful fate.
the "truths" about our biological selves are quickly
transforming and disfiguring making the moment,
the split second between life and death exist indefinitely.
this of course results in us noticing that our loved ones face's
are suddenly unfamiliar and the mystery of the beating heart
is replaced by compressed air.
there is no organized crew
the compass spins on the ghost ship
the winds are yearning and stroke the tattered sails
that used to be ripe with the possibility of direction
although the creaking boards often sailed under cloud-covered nights
the ink of the space drenched all surfaces
and bled in between all desires.
every dark-age is suspended between the two burning finger-tips of the past and future.
our brows used to be permanently arched
and all our brains existed to inquire
to be curious about the carcass in the open
we did not hunt the living.
we are still the jackal. the fly. the vulture.
the man. he burrows. the monster.
the whisp of condensed madness cleansing the ignorant and helpless
with anchors of guilt and definitions of prosperity.
and we writhe. but some are stagnant in a swamp
of grease covered microchips
playing and producing in excrement-rich sand
swiftly being sucked into the bottom chamber
of our friend, the hour glass.
the understanding of time as a beginning
falling and collapsing into an end
is projected onto a screen made round and compressed
by stelllar malice for the viewing pain of laughing morals
and the all-powerful fate.
the "truths" about our biological selves are quickly
transforming and disfiguring making the moment,
the split second between life and death exist indefinitely.
this of course results in us noticing that our loved ones face's
are suddenly unfamiliar and the mystery of the beating heart
is replaced by compressed air.