Saturday, November 27, 2010

three hundred years of vexatious sleep

My will is salt and vinegar,

I have no excuses,
They are as embarrassing as pendulums,
As the sands reign down,
Holding your dry flowers as symbols of memorabilia,
Our lasting truths,
Our lasting faith.

I don’t know if I can be saved,
Or if in fact I choose to.
My aviary wings have been so denied,
To function, I have shown wino’s that
They are helpless,

I’ve been living here for three hundred years,
Flying blind tasting blood and tears,
While withered leaves fall,
Throughout the seasons past,
As life is ever lasting,
Like bearing pain, perhaps…

She drills through me like hurricane,
And leaves her path of debris,
I can see, but no longer achieve,
What I began to believe.
I need to sleep,
Presently, or forever.

I am complete and dried up,
I’ll do this your way.
I’ll finish it your way til seasons past ,
For less, or no bother.
I envision a union alas.

I have even left for a while…..

Friday, November 19, 2010

the Tyto and the mirror

On the outside, there is a desolate plain of white and snowy, non-linear surface. Soft and cold to touch. However, this A-symmetric gift by the skies cannot be but with help from symmetries ergo the thoughts I have as I stare into voids that are present and compelling. But, I am insulated and covered when these doors are closed and I feel a sense of warmth and ignorance that keeps me levelled; plain. This is ideal. This is fulfillment. Life, as it were, is overflowing with the hard aches of man and their ability to be logic and erect, irrational but prolific. I feel fruitful and dynamic but only at the cost of my own physicality for which I am thankful, to say the least, for I am not of the young and can only strive using menial attempts of will power and broadness to acclimatize to the needs of the confident. I watch as time passes by, as cinders fly, and yet I question if my actions are dignified and true. Perhaps I am of the bigoted that can only tolerate existence when I see puzzles that fit according to my master plan, if in fact I so have chosen one in the past. Or perhaps I am, as they say, riding the wake of everyone else’s subsistence and am using their solidified labour as some sort of shadow for my own viewing pleasure of sorts. This thought makes me feel hollow, vacant and redundant. So I close my eyes, count to seven, and think of a space where death is not an option.

Forgive me as I mentally apply ointment to my intellect………or lack there of…

I am a barn owl in flight. I have eyes that are tuned to sightless surroundings and I hunt rodents to feed my young. I am ruthless; relentless; predaciously supreme. I have distinguished colours that conceal and have a fan base in the humanities that enjoy the occasional bodily print (of which they call tattoos) that formulate popularity of which I will never understand.

What is the different between a rose and a rose that has been dried? Wow. Let me say that once again backwards. Wow. I think I'm drunk.