Monday, May 23, 2011

I curl up to the heart molestation. I await to be the porch dog. I enjoy nightmares.

Between the age limits, they are maidens of a clever crush and seemingly a simple and consistent motive. But just as well, they are so infantile and act accordingly as such. I am justified as an appendage in healing. Some sort of a slight repair. A common fix until something better comes along to kidnap their refinement which, to my knowledge, I should be, in so many words, perhaps rewarded for, to say the very least. I mean, should I get not at least an “in return?” I don't know. Maybe, or quite simply, Okay, perhaps…no.

They are certainly bewitched travelers that have a Xavier type complex. A “white to red” endurance if you will. I mark my time as ‘special’ and I am now so protected and fortified that nothing, I mean nothing gets out. Nothing. And so nothing gets in. I predict certainty at a rate that is profound. Megalithic. Jarring. And to be polite about it is a unfertile practise that lately has proven to be exhausting. Tedious. To the point where I just am relieved to run away to set fire in the snow or partake in some simple act of solidarity that has absolutely no reference to any daily life monetarisms.

“We are whiplashed between an arrogant overestimation of ourselves and a servile underestimation of ourselves” Parker Palmer

I am truly confused about this quote. I don’t understand what I should get “in return” from such a poise statement. I mean, I understand the meaning or perhaps the simplistic meaning behind it but the more I try to analyze it, the more it sounds like fucking rhetorical nonsense. Excuse my fury painted sense of annoyance. I don’t know. Perhaps I have become one of those lone voyagers. Those lone nympholepts that have secretly gone insane. This theory wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Lend me your reading ears for this one.

She writes. That’s right. She is a writer although she doesn’t consider herself as one. But she is. At one time, our exchange was like voltage. She would read my phrases of puke, and would respond with a sensible comment because perhaps she felt that my word-feces was, at the very least, edible to anyone who found it palatable. And it was good. But I think that she presently finds me wearing and has decided to “move on” as is the collar of most relative corresponded endeavours of such. My ultimate conclusion? She may be correct.

So what is one to do?

My berm remains impenetrable. My sensitivity? Zero. The study of the opposing gender? Limitless. Boundless. Tedious. In that order.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Circa Survive - "Kicking Your Crosses Down"

In case it gets away from us
Don't pull it close
The damage revealed the cost
And it wasn't worth itBut they'll never know
To keep in mind the line that separates idols
If the world is a dream and nothing is worth it
Unless you have a god

But we won't be saved
We'll live as slaves to love
What God takes away
Let's refill all your holes with mud
Purchase your tickets; I'm kicking your crosses down

In case it gets away from us
Don't pull it close
The damage revealed the cost
And it wasn't worth it
We're all going to hell

But we won't be saved
We'll live as slaves to love
What God takes away
Let's refill all your holes with mud
Purchase your tickets; I'm kicking your crosses down

And all the voices sound just like you
I'll be there, I'll be there
Breathe in, breathe in
It's been so long, I've felt so wrong again

I fixed myself up nice but you never came
The words rolled off our backs and sound the same
I'll be waiting, I'll be waiting
I hope that it's worth it but I'll never know

napkin scrabble and the possibility of neurotoxic damage

The look is very much an illusion through the presence and blurred rows of hour-glasses and mirrored omni-elliptical translucency, but I digress. They stare at me in ultimate lies with the company of valor; however, they are only roused dreams and remain unnecessary to me. Those coughs of silent answers; so coy; so somniferous. The balance is dead weight for there is no balance. There is no formality. So how does one seek this sense of judgment? How does one find forgiveness? Egalitarianism? We are just mutated forms trapped in a dream through some sort of self-righteous existence. Through indecency. To be alone is to die by your own rule though made up or stolen through the truth of the like.

“If consequences dictate your course of action, it doesn’t what’s right. It’s only wrong if you get caught.” MJK

Monday, May 2, 2011

The Porcupine Ceremony

There are sometimes
There are every times
There are infancy times when you look for love
And you seek for the perfect love, the perfect time
They are the moments that choose you
When you are looking for faith
But these are times when faith will seek others
And not you

You are ready to lose conviction…

There is a season for series
There is confusion in the faces
You then receive the anomaly
And the faces will crush you like surrounding walls that fail
That you should initially should not call
And onto the gods that do not respond
To your calm

You are ready to be heard…

Then there are those who respond to you
Those who seem to call your ball
You speak of faith, you try, you fail
To those who give you weary theories
To dreary occupations
Of non-grander
To nothing at all
As you stand in a circle of a coiled plunge

You are ready to be judged…

The child inside you will still ask why
The time will continue to pass us by
We will be here now
Waiting for the cycle of blood that has been lost
Over the transmission of hours,
Days, and the suns inferior setting in the nights skies
I’ll build and never ask why
I’ll ignite and twirl to the clouds

You are ready to skip all prerequisites…

We are old and have new facades
Our language is now fundamental, but useless, banal
Our souls obsolete
All kinder and respect, sad and fallen
Apocalypse is now
Receptacle clear and all becomes distant, forgotten

You lay under the porch; you wait for the flash…
You have prepared for this and have always been ready…