Swallowing the Soothe

Nothing is as sure as dying,
As when I was upstream crying
Couldn’t I wait to hold those words? Maybe shift the provocation toward a verse
Verses tell us something of ourselves And we unite in flying
We unite in dying
So that is as true, I will embrace the path
Sewn figures, crutches and catastrophes Dear assertions lifted from a book of the heart Not monuments, but crippled storytelling
As of times when I could only see the comedy dwelling It hurt, you laughed After innate hours of steering the way Lost friendships, a moment of lost aesthetic That lost aesthetic is what gave the punch And I recovered, but the fire burned So I drowned my supposed fiction Of what had happened And tarried along the nuance Of recovering the broken warrior within.

in support of the real world as simply ‘world’

In light of the affirmative complaint that penetrative subjects lose their cool after two beers, I have given everything to higher power. I rest at higher power. I appropriate myself around no more mixed minds and dark seclusion.
This is tolerance.

I have recently addressed (as I am doing now) my intolerance for drugs. I understand that, and it has been met with criticism from some (in their quasi- confrontational method of modesty) and sympathy from others. My choice to abstain from drugs is at the heart of my reality which offers more than a confused lifestyle could…
In the presence of the world, I commit desperation to the god of death. I surrender all my peak frustration and bottled energy to the wealth of life.
Joy shouldn’t be a prospect.
It’s a feeling that frees the void and provides sanctuary. If we were all free of attachment, the joy would be abundant.

ideas that float on water

Some fundamentalism is obscene,
Some is drunk
And other close Canterbury walks are hard to reach.
But the time slips by without neon aching men going about the day under a spell of arrogance and fervor.
The glances of iconic figures in white dresses
Makes Shakespeare an advancing lot for the quick and poignant fashion.
Mural after mural is deafened by white noise and common sense
“do we have to go to that party again after last year’s mistake?”
You haven’t turned the stone,

You haven’t turned the stone
Until you’ve seen a goblin
And when they stare at you, they’re really making eye contact with every ‘must-unlearn’ passion you’ve ever had.
To go into daytime fixation is to cognize the portrait of breathless jury that doesn’t want the same mix of fruit.
The unity of end and end is the result of two forces.
For the poet, nothing makes sense.
The incantation of erect mercilessness is found under a stone.

Pick it up.
Keep it.

the drifter

When the danced become editorial,
And the sun is deepened with its strokes
When a whiplash of fire traces us back,
I will always have a conscience.
Even when the remotely curious narrators and end time machinery visits a metropolis,
The variable I had when I kept my reclusive efforts to save you,
The good deed will make you smile.

If I charitably rescued a vampire from a hellfire,
If I made lips cease movement
Then I would ask the same of no dead script,
the same is true for you.
We walk two different paths,
Maybe the sun goes to my back while in your moment, the sun is directly facing you.
No utterance of faith would surprise me if it were of you to seek out an uncanny relationship to keep score.
I didn’t travel east, I sought west.
The perseverance of the strange is strange.
The liquor cabinet of the boneless body repeats strange phrases,
But however often we seem to get pushed by the Romantic spirit of the buried ages, the world still looks buried under the garments of defenestration and unease.

Come with me,
Rebel against the scorn of deviance.
Ask the ground to move faster
Redeposit shyness back into existing quirk and lucid direction.
The fairest heart doesn’t stop beating
And the naval of my seeking body does not remember its protection.

Now it is time to protect.
To unlock the secret passages of time so that the usage of strain and restraint will be aboard with the study of art.
The once acquainted said in passing,
“I’ll be your ship,
you my moor.”
As long as we don’t enter subterranean climate where Volkswagens drift into the passing lane,
And (then) I can still be your keeper of oddity.

adoring dream

The investigation of a quick avalanche of information, healthy it is to feed some intuition of snack and history. For then, I will be at your side lecturing you about the misguided reservations of puritanical thinking as it relates to the cause of the present.

Are there no solutions to the bigger threat of questions? Has alienation sufficed long enough that indulgence in the practice of art becomes wicked tyranny?

Maybe I hear these things being actively spoken. Or maybe a tiny drop of poison has been released into my cup. But I am not this shallow. I would not dare dream of rivers that flow with blood or crucifixes that point to a planetary involvement with cheap routine and a fixation on sex.
Nonetheless, I disassociate from cause and desire. I am the back throw of pieces that were meant to remain high spirited.

The juxtaposition of failure and regret advices the neurotic to become best sellers at a book club. The two fold predicament set on by the mosaic and the temple-study has uplifted the sainthood of no one who knew the arresting importance of protected oppression.
So far, what is missing in history is the ‘final act’ of the dream character who practices celibacy and deliberately contributes peace and freedom to our consciousness.
That’s two hours of a fight not won.

If the oceans were seen to crack, and the obedience to night and day were the final growth spurt of the townsman, one would wake up and the oceans would serve technology and space if knowing that the dream was dreamed. Then, when a hierarchy of noble peacemakers were to fight off the best dreamers, the punctuation of Socratic miseries is over.

the niche has been rescued

Starting in the middle of a process isn’t all that bad. Say, for example, you had to attain ‘this or that’. You know that the this aspect is close to your heart. Its dead-center on for you to achieve maybe mastering it. Art is like that.
I wonder, should all art be a catacomb of investing each and every use of unsimplistic fantasy? Are the modern matrix’s for youth and even quietude shorter than the ostensible unity of undoing? Well, if it is a certain instance like that, the cue for roll over and ‘tighten up the nostrils of my head’ is closer.
What? A stink?
Yeah, I’m here giving curtain call the different particulars. I’m reinventing you and I. All of the invaluable matrices for youth-departure and overtone corrosion were built to nag the vulnerable beast down, catching the Smithsonian in a bind because the barrier of pragmatic-nil has toyed with every instinct.
There will come a day,
When the exertion of energy places people into a strange affair with immigrant longing that howls no hour but the hour after its return.

Most of the plans for what art is or what existentialism is are considered retro-failing because we’re not locked into a box. Sure, that’s fine, from the inside you may get a timeline of how long you’ve been in the box (due to all the marks and sweat) but you wont see reality unless suffering beautifully inside as well as without become the mixing bowl for your discovery.

Mythical plantations for drama are seen every place. Mythical tangents for unity are seen in that very space too. Every process is like ornate relationship and opportunity leaflet, designing yet a new adjustment, a new invitation and a provocative goal. The starting point should be a delicate entrance, dreamed. The physical membrane of the process takes-in the spell of irony and unwritten speech.
The overgrown inlet of a sinking auto morphing is developed over the cycle of the ‘seeming’ and the ‘cutting’.
But, when the tightened script of avenues and meltdowns structures the story, the nude situations of honesty or closeness come alive.

Has this deeper cast of affairs seen its primal dissident and believing is art?

Well, starting to remember now why I always like the stream of consciousness to art. A process is what makes art the quietest hobby in the world. All one has to do is flow.

Then, is not the conformity to migraines and passivity a novel wonder of the dialectical answering and reflecting the trouble with tall order and muscle distention? For those that think they care about art consciousness and the way it truly lends support for victimized feelings, test yourself to really communicate those novel ideas even when you’re not communicating.

For this, we will suffer.
For this we will discover.
Like cauldron untouched,
Seething babies of ripened levitation.

I leave a new baby born, as if to say yes to the form of expression.
As if to tickle the wind with a weapon.
Greet the slow sign of pressuring dread with an uncanny bark for intellectualism.
The sun lifts through the branches, even discovering arms and legs out there.
Passion invites itself. The whim of the inexperienced gift stretches out to clear your space. A very still child is born.
Confused but naked.

These are not reflections, these are reflexes. Not doldrums but impressions. Empty and mute. Says nothing of the rocket science of pretending to be something you are not. And yet, at the same time, missing dances with each member of the society.

The niche has been rescued.