"The Sun and the Glass"
(This is an odd, beatniky thing that I concocted while in WI. As of late it has taken on new meaning. It's supposed to be read out loud, so if you would like to help a brother out, read it to yourself, let the words wash over you, and let me know what you think... and if you have nothing good to say... say it! I love critisism...Try to find the beat. It's all fucked up.)
(...ehem...)
So who coined the term “psycho somatic”? A mad man? Or did he just think he did?
The world we created when we’ve fallen from greatness is a cold cage. A box that echoes our sorrows through steel and concrete vacuums; to treat the walls as attuned, living, shifting sanctuaries. Why supplant your hiding place with open space when to ignorant eyes you look like a lunatic?
Caustic, by no fault of your own, just mad and mad and sorrow-logged; thrown like sand to catch the breeze and spiral, three six zero degrees, out and up and over, dispersed among dazzling, endless, churning seas like darkness. Like a veiled sunrise, inept to express its crying neon beauty.
Beleaguered by cumulus excess and blue-grays and unrestful obstructions. Demons in the sky that say “let the sun drop unseen by whetted eyes, praying to be absolved through tidal cycles; Through the inverse of the heavens”. And beneath these unbridled escorts, these cohorts with intent to protect, the incandescence wants only to extend unending U.V.s; Beams that may glance and shimmer off of impossibly minuscule dimensions of insignificant stones-called-grains; made by histories taste for erosion, as they descend into endless sub-surface obscurity, sinking to join the mountains of sand.
If only the sun’s blinking heat were enough to beget one shard of glass, then perhaps it would be beautiful; stashed among the ubiquity of its brethren.
...
Unfortunately, across the berth of the sea; its shores, its combative panoramic of clouds that resemble towers and tricycles and dinosaurs, all casting tall shadows over setting miracles; your ignorance will engorge. Will amass traps to spring on you when something new tests the integrity of those boarders that wrap you in daft, comfortable regularity.
Be afraid and upset and neglected. Be subjected to brutality and mortality, to moral depravity and debauchery. Be sure and steady, for all preceding terms will terminate that empty hate that you harbor like a cancer... Because the good lacks novel power without its ugly opposite... because living grows sour when you’re incased in stucco, blood-thick, red-faced determination to prevent the detrimental acclimation to this life...
And true; in your isolation gone are the storms that swallow stars, and the gales that topple desires, fragile as a house of cards... but gone as well is the sun, the glass, the chance, the staggering wonder, and you... from solid to transparent to psycho systematically erased.
(Well that's it. Your thoughts would be greatly appreciated. PEACE!)
(...ehem...)
So who coined the term “psycho somatic”? A mad man? Or did he just think he did?
The world we created when we’ve fallen from greatness is a cold cage. A box that echoes our sorrows through steel and concrete vacuums; to treat the walls as attuned, living, shifting sanctuaries. Why supplant your hiding place with open space when to ignorant eyes you look like a lunatic?
Caustic, by no fault of your own, just mad and mad and sorrow-logged; thrown like sand to catch the breeze and spiral, three six zero degrees, out and up and over, dispersed among dazzling, endless, churning seas like darkness. Like a veiled sunrise, inept to express its crying neon beauty.
Beleaguered by cumulus excess and blue-grays and unrestful obstructions. Demons in the sky that say “let the sun drop unseen by whetted eyes, praying to be absolved through tidal cycles; Through the inverse of the heavens”. And beneath these unbridled escorts, these cohorts with intent to protect, the incandescence wants only to extend unending U.V.s; Beams that may glance and shimmer off of impossibly minuscule dimensions of insignificant stones-called-grains; made by histories taste for erosion, as they descend into endless sub-surface obscurity, sinking to join the mountains of sand.
If only the sun’s blinking heat were enough to beget one shard of glass, then perhaps it would be beautiful; stashed among the ubiquity of its brethren.
...
Unfortunately, across the berth of the sea; its shores, its combative panoramic of clouds that resemble towers and tricycles and dinosaurs, all casting tall shadows over setting miracles; your ignorance will engorge. Will amass traps to spring on you when something new tests the integrity of those boarders that wrap you in daft, comfortable regularity.
Be afraid and upset and neglected. Be subjected to brutality and mortality, to moral depravity and debauchery. Be sure and steady, for all preceding terms will terminate that empty hate that you harbor like a cancer... Because the good lacks novel power without its ugly opposite... because living grows sour when you’re incased in stucco, blood-thick, red-faced determination to prevent the detrimental acclimation to this life...
And true; in your isolation gone are the storms that swallow stars, and the gales that topple desires, fragile as a house of cards... but gone as well is the sun, the glass, the chance, the staggering wonder, and you... from solid to transparent to psycho systematically erased.
(Well that's it. Your thoughts would be greatly appreciated. PEACE!)