Bewilderment
Craziness on this fine evening, jittering on the edge, the brink of the famous crossroads. I wonder how Rt. 130 is fairing tonight. I wonder how the world is going about. Is their laughter? Are there tears? Do some wish they were dead, and others wish for nothing more, than to be more alive. Oh what miseries can come with this constant consistent pummeling of rain beating down through the orange light cast upon the parking spaces for safe-keeping. Tell me, could recognize the dim fortitude of a maniac on the verge of discovering some grand epiphany of internal debate? I think not. What right do you have to do that. None I tell you, none.
Oh, you all bark and howl so but you mean nothing. It all amounts to little more than some indiscernible din, that mingles with all the other sounds of the world. Your search will be fruitless and a waste of energy that could have been better spent fucking and feasting rather than traipsing all around your skull looking for something sacred and infallible. When will you learn little student that things do not matter for you, as much as you do not matter. The end comes and that's all there is. Waste and end, that is the eternal cycle of everything, just wasting time and effort and the ends that come to each individual flaccid attempt at something great. And so comes yet another. And another, and another.
The trees. Oh the trees and their enveloping embrace of shadowy cool and misty closeness. Pulling me down into sodden ground and finding me a place amidst the dead, dried bedding of leaves and needles. Homeward, bound for death and dirt. Who among you will run with the hunt? Who has the courage?
Cold air and frigid winds wrapping icy fists around my shell as I remain perched high above the forest floor, looking down. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. Scanning for rustles of fur and graceful streamlined gallops through cold lifeless fields of used corn. I bring noise and burst and flight and penetration and death. Boom, bang over…done. The flow of the quiet brook interrupted by a foreign hand, reaching down from a foreign place of banishment, stopping up the flow like a monthly necessity. There are so many things to be broken. So many wonderful structures that can collapse like toothpicks and so many matchsticks. So many systems to interrupts and plans to foil. Such joy, such gorgiousity. Pluck, you're done. Mangle everything and bunch all ends and beginnings together and you've made a grand mess of things haven't you, boy? Such a brutal knot for sore fingers to manage.
Oh, you all bark and howl so but you mean nothing. It all amounts to little more than some indiscernible din, that mingles with all the other sounds of the world. Your search will be fruitless and a waste of energy that could have been better spent fucking and feasting rather than traipsing all around your skull looking for something sacred and infallible. When will you learn little student that things do not matter for you, as much as you do not matter. The end comes and that's all there is. Waste and end, that is the eternal cycle of everything, just wasting time and effort and the ends that come to each individual flaccid attempt at something great. And so comes yet another. And another, and another.
The trees. Oh the trees and their enveloping embrace of shadowy cool and misty closeness. Pulling me down into sodden ground and finding me a place amidst the dead, dried bedding of leaves and needles. Homeward, bound for death and dirt. Who among you will run with the hunt? Who has the courage?
Cold air and frigid winds wrapping icy fists around my shell as I remain perched high above the forest floor, looking down. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. Scanning for rustles of fur and graceful streamlined gallops through cold lifeless fields of used corn. I bring noise and burst and flight and penetration and death. Boom, bang over…done. The flow of the quiet brook interrupted by a foreign hand, reaching down from a foreign place of banishment, stopping up the flow like a monthly necessity. There are so many things to be broken. So many wonderful structures that can collapse like toothpicks and so many matchsticks. So many systems to interrupts and plans to foil. Such joy, such gorgiousity. Pluck, you're done. Mangle everything and bunch all ends and beginnings together and you've made a grand mess of things haven't you, boy? Such a brutal knot for sore fingers to manage.