says keep hope alive
Got fuel to burn,
got roads to drive.
Keep on rockin' in the free world!
I hope to see my friend and shake his hand... I hope the pacific is a blue as it has been in my dreams... I hope...
I watched amber ripples burn into the black machine-rolled paper, edging up up up and smoking fervently, and realised that I knew exactly what could be the whole matter with my twisted brain. I think there's a slight chance that while I may have died some time ago, while the child in me was suffocated and I grew to some strange blend of adult, that a piece remained, so to speak. Maybe I'm a bit confused, I do so miss a good jewish deli and the more I reread this it reminds me of pastrami and pickles and a whole lotta mayo and not fucking SALAD CREAM! But at anyrate, despite the similar taste, I shall continue undistractedly and without tangential angular acceleration of the utmost maximum kind. (say what, Willis?) Thats right, you heard me, tangential your ass right off the ride mo fo. But I was watching the night clouds, seeing them float on to the west and off into the isle and began seeing shapes, not even conscious of it at first but I saw a whole wonderful near celestial play go before my eyes. And I thought, 'Australia is going to say wtf when they see what I see'. A bull terrier and the subcontinent of India with an exaggerated Sri Lanka. Seriousy, where do these things come from.
But that has nothing to do with anything I purport. In fact the whole idea is that I always wanted new eyes to awaken with every morning. Just the ability to see the world as a child does, without prejudice and scorn. It's a tall order, I readily admit this, but In fact, maybe I have had them the whole time. I see things in a fresh light the moment I turn away and back again. I see people renewed in light and dark and dim lit shadowed corners. I see mugs of beer and glasses of rum strewn across the floor in fractals and serendipitous fashion, snaking into tribal designs and interlocking much like the loops of friends and interactions of everyone around them. A dynamic moving puzzle with such great assembly required to see the pieces fit perfectly. A fluid structure of perfection that most people are far too close to see.
Just a thought at 11 past the 45th day of reckoning in an asylum. I still feel the coal dust for lungs I had fought to keep, darker and bitter they were worn in and easier to breathe on the acrid dust I kicked into myself through word and tongue lash. But thats only the few days I had been in hell for. Here it's much more difficult with paunchy bodies and lingering lobes ready to shred, just flesh as another measure of the meek and weak values we dangle in front of everyone's faces.
I feel a bit Pygmalion for why can't I desire beauty that is tangible, a physicality of what I precipitate as perfection. Amid a life of dust-jackets and strewn-about plastics disc-shaped for lyrical content, am I such a sorrowful person as to desire a musty leather binding separating faded gold-tipped pages from the humidity of her breath. I feel a bit Pygmalion parapalegic having been filled with some awful sheets of music, architecture, an horrific ideal of beauty all lacking the shape-forming creation they so long await shelved and succinct but for chaotic rambling whispers of curdled pleas. Once dead, the dead look awfully appeased at their descriptive namesake, coddled fetuses waiting for chimes to ring new organs of Corti for their desperately bored ears. I'd throw some plaster in with the sand-blue acrylic and lacquer, paint a mishap of Maugham so far from identical as to be wordless and aged and idle. I feel a bit Pygmalion taking in every curve of the road
and burning in the way few still have. That restless
r-o-l-l-i-n-g of tongue waiting to expel some spirit of worldly sustinence devoured in trails of ink and sluiced into a frigid blend. Shivering, tittering, little shaking ideas with stick-standing leans upon my cortex, but that's not really funny, bunny. I have a feeling there's road to be layed, wheel's to be spun, and distance to be traveled, a rip of tar and exhaust cutting across continents. This is passion. An idea that is so striking that to utter it louder than a whisper would shake the earth and unchain the titans we call men. Or so I'd like to think as such of dreaming children, slumber bound and stalking their own shadows. Beatific... I can't wait to feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair, hear the engine firing, whirring, and pushing. That's life, I suppose. Cheers.