From: C To: Shining C
the conversion from snail to sparrow is honored by time, though the revolute admission of its relatively mundane recursion has only just now been inducted into the mainstream of pop culture. i concede that the gods must have a firmer grip on natural order than the residuals of their mold. these facts come as no big surprise, to me. i'm just relieved that their ancestors are as dignified, for the absence of sleep casts the mind into madness, and drowns even the strong heart, while the resurrection of the damned would be an improbability, were it not for their habitual predisposition, as successive blankets of snow engender the self-indignant rituals of the addict, until he is reduced to a sedentary preoccupation with incorporeity.
metamorphosis, itself, is a critical condition. any old dog, scrounging around the Junkyard of Recovery, will tell you this, and "a moment of clarity" is no new trick. as a matter of fact, the very same mongrels may admonish against it, as time tends to tip its flute by stretching the truth. those of us who forgive those who trespass against us are oft inclined to react to mirrors with daily affirmations, as a reflex to the horror, in potentia, our kinetic connection reflects. the bottom line is that this is the last place you really want to catch yourself while in the throes of transmogrification, for "all the power in the world resides in the eyes," and the heart has a stone-gaze of her own, mind you. your circulatory system exercises the mercy of a hydra, pinned to a photo album.
though the acuity of maternal gestures, among those who seek light, does nothing to disturb one, dusted with perennial righteousness, letting serpents roam freely though Eden was but the first string attached to original sin. eve may have been tempted by prong and prong, aflesh, but adam was conceived with his head in a dream, and held himself accountable for the constellations he incorporated into his fiscal projection. the sky was immaculate, and jehovah was an imbecile!
so, while the easter bunny deliberates over which scavengers to taunt, with all the prowess of some somnambulant pharmacologist, the north wind executes a perfect finale for the field mice, sardonically offering their first born, as if begging for the balm of a wintry encore, before Little Foo Foo comes hopping along to rape their land of its Cadbury almond. meanwhile, a solitary fledgling ruptures the tranquil birthright of a hundred horse tails, swatting at wounds that won't heal.
"via con dios," sayeth the tortoise, mulling over an abandoned, golden ratio; a shell that once served a purpose beyond reminding the forest of its golden rule: multum in parvo; much in little... and all the poky quadruped could see was the future, while he whistled the tune of an old, 20th century traditional:
"Make a new cult every day to suit your affairs
Kissing girls in English, at the back of the stairs
You're a honey, with a following of innocent boys
They never know it
Because you never show it
You always get your way
They never know it
Because you never show it
You always get your way..."
metamorphosis, itself, is a critical condition. any old dog, scrounging around the Junkyard of Recovery, will tell you this, and "a moment of clarity" is no new trick. as a matter of fact, the very same mongrels may admonish against it, as time tends to tip its flute by stretching the truth. those of us who forgive those who trespass against us are oft inclined to react to mirrors with daily affirmations, as a reflex to the horror, in potentia, our kinetic connection reflects. the bottom line is that this is the last place you really want to catch yourself while in the throes of transmogrification, for "all the power in the world resides in the eyes," and the heart has a stone-gaze of her own, mind you. your circulatory system exercises the mercy of a hydra, pinned to a photo album.
though the acuity of maternal gestures, among those who seek light, does nothing to disturb one, dusted with perennial righteousness, letting serpents roam freely though Eden was but the first string attached to original sin. eve may have been tempted by prong and prong, aflesh, but adam was conceived with his head in a dream, and held himself accountable for the constellations he incorporated into his fiscal projection. the sky was immaculate, and jehovah was an imbecile!
so, while the easter bunny deliberates over which scavengers to taunt, with all the prowess of some somnambulant pharmacologist, the north wind executes a perfect finale for the field mice, sardonically offering their first born, as if begging for the balm of a wintry encore, before Little Foo Foo comes hopping along to rape their land of its Cadbury almond. meanwhile, a solitary fledgling ruptures the tranquil birthright of a hundred horse tails, swatting at wounds that won't heal.
"via con dios," sayeth the tortoise, mulling over an abandoned, golden ratio; a shell that once served a purpose beyond reminding the forest of its golden rule: multum in parvo; much in little... and all the poky quadruped could see was the future, while he whistled the tune of an old, 20th century traditional:
"Make a new cult every day to suit your affairs
Kissing girls in English, at the back of the stairs
You're a honey, with a following of innocent boys
They never know it
Because you never show it
You always get your way
They never know it
Because you never show it
You always get your way..."