(no subject)
The road, the road, the foolish net, the people caught and dragged along with it. With sunlight and dust, the bucking hitchhiker shoulders his soul down the spindly highway. What talk, what talk, what balance beamed through footsteps, what lark unleashed and came to me, and wept. I am what I am becoming to be, a sea, a stranger leapt by way of seething memory. Halt. Ingest. The beautiful world is there, whether you’re in a mood for respecting it or not.
The mined flurry, the untying of your knots, the future felt through brown and black, the rotting glory of Memphis, struck upon my senses. Welcome to the wheelchair, the skull carried in with the musk. The place where elk stampede their outrage, where the nuts and bolts align in ruts. We are but hollow mounted cusps, we are but flying in the age. The man recommends the guitar in its age, and the heart goes dark in the later times of being. Didn’t you know those cowboys who rode out, and never came back? Did you know those suits of armor, unforged in boiling black?
Grey life, caged into the dusk. We watch with busted mines, and the rusting of the universe unfolds to where we need to be, the setting sun and walking tree won’t tell you anything you don’t already know. I fastened my courage to the front of a sedan, rode fast, landed somewhere in the middle of heartache. Took a break from the suicidal thing, came ringing with every sunset burgeoning, howled at something astounding and the front of life came running, running. I want too many fists and punches, too many drunk senses, the life becomes, retreats, and my head is left to what it becomes. Nonsensical, and numbed, perhaps, but this is what you write, what you do, there is a story in these words, flown through.
The rain retrieves an old feeling, the dogs are out. The bickering wind will send you snowflakes, and I will send you love. The sent things broken, howling, the books that cause our calloused love, the places we have been, confounding, hurting, herding our minds towards love. I want to use these words someway to make you sway with evening breeze, to make your hands lower to the ground and combine with the stones, the rocks and hell’s eaves. I did not know the bend of a leaf, until I saw the curl of your cheek. I did not know the feeling of rain upon skin, until we kissed. That knowing, subtle kiss. There is light within you, famed love is found within you, yes. Know your place, your places fecund, the earth you found and wound upon. The coursing piece, the peace of time, the letting go is not the crime. I roll the tongue unto the words of eastern places, eastern herds of people passing, as they do here, but only east, east of here. Fear is broken down, dissolved, and a cautious blue is retrieved from her face, a life exhibited in its’ death, the pounding ache, the pounding ache. I would let go, I would carry seashells in my ears, I would conquer, in peaceful silence, if I could. Our closest hide within the wood, our closest hide within. Connect and break, connect again, this is the nature of our lives, and in the aurora’s passing gaze we hurriedly hum a hymn for this, the temporary, the change of all and creation’s quips. We are but words, the elements, our letters.
The choral paralysis of sensible renderings, the impression, sensation, idea of gloating, smacking of sunshine, melodious, wild, panicked atoms making fire, the spasm of light. The gratified lung is filled with ice, the broken shoots are thrown into the ocean. Handled paw, groping child, thorned person understood. Eye-shot lover, saged and parsed. Life became in great sobriety, the husbandry of the ambient sky, the blue is shared between the two, the kitchen wharfed. The handle held, the steed compiled, the senses conducted into carriages of glum. Gramophone wit, laterned night, child projected onto waxed past, what you are will never last.
Elastic sky, spread across the world, stunted into livelihood with beckong graces. The conquering face of the sun, coming, and again is pushed away. Turning earth assures the night that life will end some day. Volatile rub, elbowed rage, grating kernel in the chest, my heart, a part of sunburnt corn. And after the lakes stand out of their holes, and walk the mighty plains, I will look to my lonesome love, and there I will remain. I came this way by train and car, I came this way by foot. I came this way by longing and I came this way by soot. I came this way by fired breath, I came this way by kiln. I came this way by hoarse-voiced fight, I came this way by brawling mill hands. I came this way with honesty, I came this way by casting lies. Shadows get heavy around these parts, sometimes people die.
The strum of my reserved respect, the light of my bright eye. The pause and every solid met by the crashing of the logging fire. Breathe in your happy day, and breathe out the strewn time. You know you’ve got the warmth in your cheek, the wrangled sight I know, the demonstration filled us in, the annotation sewn. The sleeve contains my inference, the frank and constabled mind. I would rather see you there than simply just imply. The light goes down and I must hurry, bring the water to the light. Passing sun is going past me, the light will burn out in time. The final pulse, the beat, it goes, the dusty corn-strewn hue of all, the man becomes small, stale, coal-like and feeling the passing heat rise, simply, rise, the sunset will again rise, re-rise, the water curl, the curl, the curl into a spiral helm, the light becomes a downward spell, what su n, where did you go at least, the day has ended far too soon. The fat of when we held out hearts will be daunted by the motion. Grass, you know this, you see it fall. You know the change in your belief. The wasted man sits poised and still, the wasted man speaks dreams in breif. I have large dreams that weigh me down, they are no such things as feathers. I will sink, dream-bound, and I will curl my tongue in crying. Pocketed air, culled from my lungs, will fly free from my mouth, the words, sheathed in water, rise, rise, exist beyond me, struck by those loose strands of sunlight. Oh god, this is the sinking, the enveloping of one’s life in dream. A dreamer is an anchored thing, an anvil falling, struck down by imaginary things.
I’m sure I will forget you when I see my beauty coming, when I see that light that wipes away my thoughts, my face, my mind. I’m sure I will forget you when I hear those animals singing, when my crying sounds are drowned out by the whistle and the rear. I’m sure I will forget you when I taste that bright and happy poison, when invisibility takes me by the throat and I can’t feel that aching heart anymore. Oh no, I won’t love you anymore. Oh no, it will end. Oh no, remember that there is something destroyed every time something new begins, so I’m starting up new hobbies and lighting up with the arsonist. That’s why I’m flying skyward with those bullets in my fists. I bet the first war was fought because of a love that wouldn’t go away. I’m sure of it. I’m sure I will forget you. I’m sure I will forget you when I eat that meal of dust, when I rust my bones into the earth and get my shit straightened out for once. I’m sure I will forget you when forgetting feels that good, when the cement runs down through my veins, I’ll be petrified wood, I’ll be my greatest heroes in the ancient neighborhoods where the people stand quite still, where the mannequins could kill ya if you started a staring contest with them. I’ll forget you when the rivers stop and then I die of thirst. I’ll forget you I’ll forget you until you forget me first. I’ll forget you into the forest, I’ll forget you into the sea, I’ll blur my lines within the earth and maybe then I’ll be free, free from the way you simply said “yeah”. I’m sure I will forget you when the machinations roll by, when the science of the world becomes contained in this way. I’m sure I will forget you when Armageddon comes, and the single most important thing will be my survival. Because right now survival seems less, right now I hold you to my chest, in each dream, in each thrumming pang of feeling. Oh god will find me brushed upon the ground, and then I know that I’ll forget you, because without a brain I’ll have no faculty for remembering. If you help me, I’ll throw you in the fire, and I can love the world with your ashes embracing it. I’m sure I’ll forget you on the porch in Colorado, with the coyotes yelping. Look at the country, look at the pains. Look at the creases, they’ve been there, as we have. I’ve got to love something else for awhile. I’ve got to find the world shudder, shoulder a new love. Bare expectation, elated place. I’ll cover the place where I last stood, the poison sulked into the brood. Kill and kill, the life will come afterwards, but now you kill and kill. The throes wake up in the ended life up and around the heart soled for the giving. I will walk you out the door, and we will find within the place where every standing courage is knocked away. Slurred current is going to knock you away. Hurt the place where you last sat, hurt the place. I’m sure I will forget you when the tides swallow my home.
We will dine on Illinois, we will crave the function of our livelihoods, we will catch the breath in the firesight. We will head somewhere, when the day gets dead. We will fold our clothes will regretful precisions, our fingers will press against our bowed heads. I don’t want to love anything, babe, I just wanna husk off this wind that’s been berating my back, the livelihood has made it’s take and I have made my pull. Brawling future, I am fighting, I am taking my life in its’ grasp. Lemon fire and the citrus sting. I am, I am running for it, I am singing.
The breaking point of the horizon, the desert is collapsing on itself. I am a child when I’m called but when calling I’m a full grown whelp. And when the waking comes colliding I will fortune all the cracks and easels in the crowd. Escaping eagles, riled up and scathing, happening in the life of hating. There is a legend in those fingers, the living license of naught. The breaking pull of all thought, the raging of the winged gutters. The causation behind the landlord’s weight, the money in question, and doing great. The drawl of evening tunes on his cheeks, the likening of dining light. Be careful, youth, with one slip you will die. One slip, that she’ll wear, one black slip, on one white night.
The respectful reproach of the man in the suit stunted Ollie where he stood. The thought was culled from deeper things, and grips he felt upon his chest, and life. There stood a wife, in mystic past, where mist would glow from raspy times. The flute is nothing in the brawling tuba’s mouth, and the couched heart is nothing when defined. Do not come this way, aligned, fraught with bogus life in ears. Spill those tears, those raging lights that come from eyes on nights bent in such a way to kill. You will eventually get your fill of life, and that is when you die. To be living is to never be full, always searching for that connection, that gorging sense, that growing leaf, the big league hurl of arms and legs. Chime yourself among the pictures, sell the life you knew down roadway river toll. The encouragement of superb heaven, doused in bullion, as it were, the skull will always shine, curved, the day will always hurt. I’ll go that way when I get numb, when love will fall as if a leaf, yellowed, sickly. I’ll sit upon the thought awhile, and wait for you to come again, and maybe in the reckoning I will voice my mind again. I love someone I’ve never met, I know it, because I need her. She stands away from here, I’m sure, and there she knows I exist too. We haven’t met, we haven’t heard each other’s words or anything, but strong thumps the hidden heart, for what lies within a jacket of mystery. I know how to pound through the place, where voice sounds off in the big and shameful echo of where I come from. You will know the columned house, the place where death will whisk away. I know not from the hallowed people that decay, decay, decay. Meet the between haversack, the places wild and yet to meet. Where were you in the loose jangly morning, the one where I bowed my back in the strange and dilapidated field? I can’t shake the demons from my back, so they will yet reside there. Midnight child in the corn, wake up and don’t think about it, how the world is going to shit and how the politics are gruesome as corrupted waters. If you insist on pollution, please admit to it being there. The rights of all our toppled speculations, the tartan spills from behind my tongue into the kingdom, the fecund thing. I will flow, as I live, in one direction, because you are the lowest point on the entire earth, either that or you’re an ocean, this I know.
As they leave the great cave, the bats bow their heads. Darkness is a reverent thing, this we do forget.
The world tastes, and with a hasty spoon, eats the moon. What incredulous action, what cheese forsaken.
The American ideal is that of a rebellion, a rejection, a seeking. The American state has been far different, far estranged from that. The Prince John resides on the backs of our people. King George is coming.
Our nation starves for revolt, unrest. Complacency and apathy, deadly, deadly. I am one to rage in silence. We are the flesh of where we live, we are the blood, the conduits of soul. The family rage expels itself, is breathed into the air. Revolution is what we need, a stirring in the deeper parts of the heart, a revolution is what we need, is what we were born to be. We are the salty sight beneath the thought, the roaming shot. The dressmakers yowl, the fighter in the air, the won over baking of the city-time sun. You will wake us, and end up there, the scarred life contained in the singed hair. You will be here, and here to be whatever, the glow. Will contained himself in the afterthought. He hounded the dock-grin, the pile of all that came wrapped around the locks. I recognized the dogs, and the herds came back and around. I fear the ghosts, they come around in the deep containment, the condiments of war are sprinkled on our daily lives. The pictured of our captured life, the hard and living realm of what? Your nostril has its’ own rifle, the face became the lord, the lord. Make your busses go between the places that you’ve seen. Put the world in paintings, put my legs in Scotland. Take the world and put it in places where it shouldn’t be. I’ll give you frankly all you need, the lips and lungs of all that came. Welcome to the great cave, there are wonders here. I’ll love the way your love doesn’t make sense, the goats are roaming in the incandescent, culling grace you know nothing of, the dove’d time was calm, and loved. This is different, as we are, the bed becomes our sanctuary.
Held by the browned and greened hill, the dead house reminisces. He lived in there for fifty kisses, and then the love fell through. She made her byes’ with walking shoes, not the shoes she wore when they loved, and unwore in the livid bedroom. Later on, the porch time dwindled his senses, until he became the moss. And held by the browned and greened hill, the dead house reminisces. “Will you come to me?” it says, out across the parched expanses. The waging sky, the light so spent across it. We are most humble in the night, with passing throes of loveless knocking, when loneliness harrows at our door, it is so simple a thing to succumb. But it passes. It always does. Some warmth of existence sets, spun by stars, those passengers of the night, and moon, renewed companion. And held by the browned and greened hill, the dead house reminisces. Buckled afternoon pours through his windowed eyes. What mighty day has spent its’ breath, what cautious spells lay on his shoulders. And in the eve of glinting night, he pauses, and then, forever.
Sorry, but the time has passed by hand, by shoulders. Sorry, but I can’t make the parade. The day is going to come and take the silences away. I didn’t know you, but I like your grandchildren a lot. Freedom is a séance away from where we’ve been. But we’ve been in a hole deep down. We’ve been in a baby, and we’ve been thrashed around in the waters of a grey and tilled ocean. We understand the livelihood of all our waking dreams. We understand we break down, we tumble out from between the seams, we cry from time to time, and we wreck on the sharp and defeating rocks. Hurry by, there is something, there is caution in the howl, there are crickets who hurl themselves around the stipend fowl. I will wake you in your cancer, I will shock you through and through. There is no better place for your great and wide blue. Your shock of white, will compound in the zoo. Carry me, with angels, with songs about the water, those songs are my favorite, bury me in them. And in the place where happiness upends and all combines, there is windy white sweeping through the dogs that run and run away. What a drowning yellow feeling that I hold when I see you, what an enveloping crime of all crimes. What a chimney blasting heaviness into the great blue sky. I am blind, but am knowing this to come along in time. Shut your days inside the cell, I will treat you by my fist, I will crash the stones into themselves and do it by the wrist. I will flower on the bed, I will strike with heavy head, on the wide and open.
The worst of all his angers is the blue. The silver is his second. In no loud red will his fists grip, for silence is his weapon. We will release, and heal, I’ve heard. We will release and heal. We got a package of morning and went out on our own. The place we had become. The slighted respect of our proper lives, the imbecile lung of the flying corpse, we had a dignity fouled with remorse, the place where kingdom came. The under which I had insane, the proper spot in life, we held, the helm. The dogs I ran up towards the head, the place I wanted to be from. The mouth opened, tried to hum, but had to close to do it. I ran through it and closed it did, the finger held the tip for stars, the breath, the arc, the leap of mars across the sky did not vex war in the least, Aphrodite, breasts built with flour and yeast did nothing to surpass the guns as they cracked, the laugh of bombs upon the ground, groping for the inner earth, one which we never have found. The icy structure of the mind, the infinite in the warming tide, the riding of the ragged hide, the movement of the barrel from face, to face, to face. We hid our eyes without the traces of food and scent we had grown up with. Childless kindling headed upon the roaming, the herd stole itself away in burning, the hurting hid himself in the shelving hut, the muscled rut of every man, the heading outward to the west, the place of mystery in which we had never, never sailed before. Watched magic by the shore the thought composed in every thing, the din and hum. We will go crunch in the snow, the orange place, the peopled grown. I will trace my thoughts so flown, and in the evening I will go. This is the best thought, the one that I could comprehend, in its’ dress and cumbersome method. The mellow heart is held, reddened by the place around it in the glowing wage. I heard the graces flown in their time, the places that I know, I know. For lack of what is watered, thymed, scented with the missing thing. Harrow under leafless grumble, I want nothing yet to touch. The noise is heavy, far too much, the places where I want to go. I am in a dusty hue, the place I have commiserated, bright blue light, she is the snow, she is waiting out there, waiting.
The people drool, ridicule and moan, they rap upon what thoughts I fumble to possess. Strength is required in this home, and I fall into mess. Dressed is the burgeoning night, I want to fight with all these things. This is something I know so well, the tease, the hating piddle. The western in its’ flurry hid, the people come and break themselves like waves upon the shore. Our hair grows white and then we crash, this is what birth is for. What feverish ghosts lens itself to this scene. What crunching heart falters here. I know the place where becoming becomes of me, and the coat sleeves where once begun can run. Do not talk in lowered tones, it does not bode in time’s swelling house, the place where orange hits the sky, the sneaking A upon the growl, I do not know a better place. Hear me friend, among the roar, the place is where I need to go, the firelight will swell, will go and howling under maker’s shifting. Strike the sword upon the anvil, make the curried awning fire. This is but a farce of time, this is emotion nailed to your door, letting you know what birth is for.
He wanders down the drunken alley, holly in the face of tradgedy, something red and round is here, and something in the swoop of teredactyl wings, the headed frontal life of kings I rubied in its’ breif display. I am a man of old decay, and in such bitter wanderings, the dog harangues, the soft wind plays and strikes the organs of the self. I am not a shelf, I am a book, hurried from a storied nook, the place between the chest and arm, I place this thing, harmed, uncurried. We hurt the things that come upon the door, the knocking fate and all its’ garnishings. I want to read the herding hell. The place where all comes through and battling. See the banner of the shell, the peaceful hell is non-existant. The elf and sorrow in this combined, the first and last defeated pine. Strike down that tree, that marrow, strike it with the red and steel. We are coming from the west, with dusty hats and hair matted down. Feel the lips and what they do, if smiling they will administer. Will soft fecund and day renew, know something, if it happens to come. First light mingles with the last, touching barely they maybe do. I will come and see you, down the road, cloaked in midnight running, mist flown through the gunning night, something strengthened,. made right.
Sharp she is, but soft she wants to be, coming from the willow tree. He writes and does as peace will believe, and wanton thought will come and seed the earth. We are born of thinner girth, out here where the sunlight rages, strikes us down and in our brief and humble wooden cages we gather in night our food and family. What else needed must be free. The shock of all our fabled light, the tirade of creases, the time of lines, the deed done inside the mind, and all our mesas held into us. Initialize this memory with force and heave and moving breath, passing beneath hand and finger, this is all that I have left. Hear the rackling in the wind, the man has come to break again. Every year he dawns the midtime mist, and here he comes, the ghost, the ghost. Know his shape and what he does, creeping voice and moaning movement. Stir up something in this course, we are alive, and bent.
This is the last of the updates today. I'm not sure if they're all really that... readable? If you want to read, feel free to just skim until you start reading something you like? It gets a little ridiculous when its' rhyming...
oh, and this is also the end of chapter 7. Chapter 8, "Bird Talk", aims to be more cohesive. Maybe. No promises.
Total wordcount: 30,008 (hoping to hit 38000 today)