RE:Mission
[RE]Mission
I think about
I think about getting into fights with skeletons ham-fisted and very plausible in my actions I see rebuttle and
feel the shuttle of determination propel me forth, but frothing fiends be-wear me out
until I shout at them to stop.
Their constant, blocking of my concious zen and artery right-of-ways processes my programmable perception.
Perfection shouldn't come by perscription and perspiration only complicates what parental pacifism puts before pragmatic empowerment.
I dream about children being ostracized.
I dream about children meeting modern lies.
I think upon the dew-lit leaves, myself lost inside a set of parenthesis and
pausing to reflect, the drops of water subdue the air
pausing a genuflect against skylight windows to the orange abyss.
The ghosts of tomorrrow want to bide time in sheets of yesterday, continue to resound and complicate the missing appendages
indexed in the back of a boook never titled.
When the head of the ant meets the thorax does this connsumate conception of a new posision or
a terretorial angst that withholds uncertain data to compute through antannae that twitter tulmutuously
sand sits softly and sifts through the sea as we, the people
commiserate in commonplace cupboards of a convention, idly watching the polls drop and stocks bond with blaringly bleeding results
bellow the wind in the belly of the beast when a bush shrubs his opponent to let the healing begin
when i sleep i'll remember to forget those skeeltins
because cutting white-knickle to the bon makes my hand feel number than cold frozen pokers
prodding and stinging as they whizbang through my ears the world stops revoling
the world stops revolving
and in that blink of an eye you will find that we are all lost and we cannot find hope in what we demean as morals
the everlasting thought that most people want me to leave you with is that we will still have a future in about ten years but can you see it
no we have our eyes closed and are shoting in the dark about gays and how much we can't tell who is.
Lets get fucked up on LSD and unwind reels of teeth stuck beside our jawline. They only worm around in gums to be unnoticed and neglected when we die
except for the graverobbers ho find out skeletons are great at sword fighting like pirates
that don't use guns because that wouldn't be a fair deul at all now would it.
i figure that fingering another bowl of cocaine won't do me much good if the pain of lasting highs drops nigh into my lap
dancing all the while she probably was in an entranced state like a dog drunk in a backalley of a bar.
two thirty alone in an apartment makes for growing paranoia
makes for cofee and black pitch skies to transcened over my roof
the flat surface growing rocks that erode and find their way through my window on occaision.
I haven't hidden or written in weeks nad the missing pages are still unheard.
Of another dream, I suppose there aren't penguins racing around in volvos or verily making their way through a Kierkegaard.
These days it's all art and swirling colours to satiate where my eyes haven't seen in days
ink and dried jetison of gravity fill voids that weren't. And avoiding the fascinaiton into color makes me feel fine
because colourblind contrast tints each shade a different hue and red or green nightmares don't line up
eye to eye without first glaring at the other side of a black and white matchup.
There's a fire on the table across from me. Glaring,
flaring I guess would make more sense. It's tempting to go and blow it out or pour something over it.
I think about
I think about getting into fights with skeletons ham-fisted and very plausible in my actions I see rebuttle and
feel the shuttle of determination propel me forth, but frothing fiends be-wear me out
until I shout at them to stop.
Their constant, blocking of my concious zen and artery right-of-ways processes my programmable perception.
Perfection shouldn't come by perscription and perspiration only complicates what parental pacifism puts before pragmatic empowerment.
I dream about children being ostracized.
I dream about children meeting modern lies.
I think upon the dew-lit leaves, myself lost inside a set of parenthesis and
pausing to reflect, the drops of water subdue the air
pausing a genuflect against skylight windows to the orange abyss.
The ghosts of tomorrrow want to bide time in sheets of yesterday, continue to resound and complicate the missing appendages
indexed in the back of a boook never titled.
When the head of the ant meets the thorax does this connsumate conception of a new posision or
a terretorial angst that withholds uncertain data to compute through antannae that twitter tulmutuously
sand sits softly and sifts through the sea as we, the people
commiserate in commonplace cupboards of a convention, idly watching the polls drop and stocks bond with blaringly bleeding results
bellow the wind in the belly of the beast when a bush shrubs his opponent to let the healing begin
when i sleep i'll remember to forget those skeeltins
because cutting white-knickle to the bon makes my hand feel number than cold frozen pokers
prodding and stinging as they whizbang through my ears the world stops revoling
the world stops revolving
and in that blink of an eye you will find that we are all lost and we cannot find hope in what we demean as morals
the everlasting thought that most people want me to leave you with is that we will still have a future in about ten years but can you see it
no we have our eyes closed and are shoting in the dark about gays and how much we can't tell who is.
Lets get fucked up on LSD and unwind reels of teeth stuck beside our jawline. They only worm around in gums to be unnoticed and neglected when we die
except for the graverobbers ho find out skeletons are great at sword fighting like pirates
that don't use guns because that wouldn't be a fair deul at all now would it.
i figure that fingering another bowl of cocaine won't do me much good if the pain of lasting highs drops nigh into my lap
dancing all the while she probably was in an entranced state like a dog drunk in a backalley of a bar.
two thirty alone in an apartment makes for growing paranoia
makes for cofee and black pitch skies to transcened over my roof
the flat surface growing rocks that erode and find their way through my window on occaision.
I haven't hidden or written in weeks nad the missing pages are still unheard.
Of another dream, I suppose there aren't penguins racing around in volvos or verily making their way through a Kierkegaard.
These days it's all art and swirling colours to satiate where my eyes haven't seen in days
ink and dried jetison of gravity fill voids that weren't. And avoiding the fascinaiton into color makes me feel fine
because colourblind contrast tints each shade a different hue and red or green nightmares don't line up
eye to eye without first glaring at the other side of a black and white matchup.
There's a fire on the table across from me. Glaring,
flaring I guess would make more sense. It's tempting to go and blow it out or pour something over it.