A Serendipitous Stream Called Conciousness
Too often I dream in possession.
I am rarely myself.
Someone else, yet still self-aware.
Another body, same bad traits.
Always a tragedy. Albeit, a funny one.
I've always been one to laugh at misfortune. After, of course, the initial, "God, why do you hate me?"
Very little gas. Just gotta make it to the stay-shun.
My life as of late=split screen. Two selves.
One overly honest.
Another: tapered.
Yet: no dialectic.
I'm waiting...for the dialectic.
Can we really be made new?
I ask this in honesty.
Our old man cannot die. He can only be supressed. Metaphored. Juxtaposed. He is immortal.
These are ghosts. Hauntings.
Disappearance in a flurry of exploding brass.
I think that's how I hope I die.
To fall standing up. To meet no floor. To admire the view. All to the crushing crescendo of abrasive brass.
Heaven is not above. But below. To fall...into it.
Yet: a note:
One says: "Hell is down there yawning, hopin' I fall headfirst innit."
Phallic interjections of a sterile mind. Scrubbed clean with disinfectant and the glossy words of a bourgeois upbringing.
Resentment.
Is a horrible thing to be filled with.
Things are taken by those not deserving.
Things are cheapened.
And you find yourself looking a little more dead.
Yet if there's one nugget of wisdom a parental has taught me:
Fault is found in the mirror.
Say hi. And move on.
Whatever that means.
--------------------------------------------
"Sometimes I feel as though I may fade away. Then...I remember my work."
-Crispin Glover
I am rarely myself.
Someone else, yet still self-aware.
Another body, same bad traits.
Always a tragedy. Albeit, a funny one.
I've always been one to laugh at misfortune. After, of course, the initial, "God, why do you hate me?"
Very little gas. Just gotta make it to the stay-shun.
My life as of late=split screen. Two selves.
One overly honest.
Another: tapered.
Yet: no dialectic.
I'm waiting...for the dialectic.
Can we really be made new?
I ask this in honesty.
Our old man cannot die. He can only be supressed. Metaphored. Juxtaposed. He is immortal.
These are ghosts. Hauntings.
Disappearance in a flurry of exploding brass.
I think that's how I hope I die.
To fall standing up. To meet no floor. To admire the view. All to the crushing crescendo of abrasive brass.
Heaven is not above. But below. To fall...into it.
Yet: a note:
One says: "Hell is down there yawning, hopin' I fall headfirst innit."
Phallic interjections of a sterile mind. Scrubbed clean with disinfectant and the glossy words of a bourgeois upbringing.
Resentment.
Is a horrible thing to be filled with.
Things are taken by those not deserving.
Things are cheapened.
And you find yourself looking a little more dead.
Yet if there's one nugget of wisdom a parental has taught me:
Fault is found in the mirror.
Say hi. And move on.
Whatever that means.
--------------------------------------------
"Sometimes I feel as though I may fade away. Then...I remember my work."
-Crispin Glover