top of page

Do Not Be Shameful In The Sight Of A Truer Love Than Thou Knowest Best


May Thy Hand Take Once More From Me What Thou Know Is Nothingness


There Is A Place Between The Fear And The Sacred Where All Things Collapse

13 views

deep into the concious mind the unconsciousness exists, what then for how it is indifferent


once more unto the break of dauntless days drifting down destructive pathways twist and


turn more lucid at the cornere, it becomes a dream, only the fearful try again, only the


best laid plans of men at the precipice of the abyss looking into the nothingness for all


of anything to the circumfrance is still circling, measure the radius to find the dice spinning


to find the diamonds angles one first must conclude that there is a genius in disguise there


is a devil on foot, walking crookedly through the straight hall, looking oft too hard for a


reflection of the capstone held for the light it gives, bless the ice laid pond, where is it that


they continue on, surface of the face descending, shadow of the sphere for far too long, for


it is, true, far too true it is, the leaves one day shall they fall once more, not this time they say


no, not this time for to think, that evervesvent of the roses deaths each one the same forgive


me if i say it too quickly serpentine mouth at the slythriane tongue scorching complexities


written a sentence or so myself back before, the old gold is the one you don't see, they are


out there somewhere in the vast expanse of all things to play the tune the begger hears o


say it againe unto me, somewhere drifting past the passing stream, somewhere flowers


no, capsized the ship entirely, flag of the daisy at half mast before there were colours from


nothingness, before beneath the rippling surface of the sand how beautiful it was then how


revolutions spin like the stone it flips for the coin spun headlong for desire, twas it all for


whom, shall it be another blasphemy somewhere written on the dark side of the spoon, no


never from the opposite and always the same from the source, never from the exit plan and


sometimes thou shalt find thyself the horse in the grave of a deader man deader than a


lucid mind spilling speakers for sound running away with the conversation before the words


come out the spider falls down from a thousand leagues in the clouds just for to be found


out and about, lazy dazing, out and around in the realm of rings to be worn, shalt it nought


be said, worn rings of wine spilt at the abundances of the tapping shoes left and bled, nor


shall it not be said, or was it ever the same, thinking in the same ways twice leading up to


there again it twas, at the mirror split, smashing reflections for the light it gives, for the dark


it bends, for the night it rearranges for the life of a friend, for the height of the damsal dis-


stressed out for the moonlit shouting matches sparked and hit, to the ground the falling


precipice of nothingness ever descends in-depth nuances of realities quicker hands deal


dwelt far too long, far too long to be too true in the deeper colours of the blacker hues


art thou you, who wast it then there before thou shalt sing it unto me, nightengale, bleed


thy bitterest voiceless surrender, say it once more to me in my dreams, I LIE, at thy feet


the serpentine slaughter for the blood spilled for the mindless frolic through the dungeon


swinging the pendulum by the mechanism set it stone, each the stones dug by hand you


wicked fiend, dost thou know it how to see, each stone in place where it once was before


every story reads a soliloque dripping abuscade down the faceless mask, all was there for


a moment then, all was there in the sand, the obselisk it stands, the mountain oft found to


be forever past the place of the clouds, forever into a distance of the story written beneath


the sun up down stream falter along the lines writing placidly by the lakeside of a doubt


drifting on about, distance between the ever-prevelant goodness of creation to uncreate


all things, to take away the nonsense and fill chaos to the overflowing brim with disease


call the spinning coin flip a double exposed masterpiece, it is all that is happening behind


the scenes, and whom it is who is, light shines from the captivated nothingness grasped


in the death wails of the screaming madness from nowhere shall it be found, from out of


the ground the spirits ring out, ring out, ring out the bells, shatter each the glass, in every


directions distance, in every distances directive, infinities collapsing romance, dalliance in


eternities definition, defining what it is to see, re-defining what to see dost mean, and to


then find it meaningless, well, it is a corrupted visionary certain at the calling of a snake


listening to the lapsed tongue whipping belief out of conscious confusion, bullet struck


the wick taught how to light itself beneath the silver moonbeams falling aimlessly upon


the weeping midnight mass, massacre of the mind made up before the mind there was


what then shall it be, what more should the meandering mask speak deep beneath the


surface of the ice laid pond still drifting yet vertically it falls, yet horizontally the moon yet


inclined so to prove, what the sunless rays from the light creating nothingness but flames


ignited all the same, for one and each and for all it hangs, dreadfully, would call it a vast


difference at the vast expanse of all things to be called nothingness by the lucid stream


once more unto the lucidity, singing unto the tearing seams of the of the of the fling


sordid matches strewn through straw just for what it is to find, toss each the books in and


hold them all by the spine of emptiness lingering above the whirlpool staring into black


tears held still by the momentary suspension of disbelief, me, that mask in the mirror


reflected back to me, mirroring images of mirrored reflections spiraling off and spinning


spitting colours at the dripping fiend drooling spit at the paintings frame, just to touch


the dust, blown oft for the bee, stars laid waste at the villianry, every page reads poetry


every poet bled their best at the white mask waiting to be fed the ink of a teardrop kept


and, by shining the light through and through it then, all of it in angled diamonds in the


spaces left between the black flames ignited by cruelties devilish device, swinging for


a blade, may the sparks be caught by the sound of each dwindling back to faith oft to


be disappointed at the ever tearing seams, one page at a time takes far too long, far


far away into the landscape print of the garden portrait of the walk upon the stones


skipping in place the needle never repeats yet reap it does and sows the seeds planted


in the lucid planet deeper subconscious stems fractal nuances taking root in the gems


this, of the baskets three turned one and back again, this of the spinning hands rotating


yet in all the same circles, friendly mind for the skull locked climb into the cave of theives


masked abundances beneath the feet of the begger blowing flute for to heare the doves

10 views
bottom of page