bad dreams like this roll in like a cold front
thunderous thunder and lightning in tow
and your tiny little life gets even smaller
as you heed the heavens mighty show
and i dont mean heaven like godlike
cos the animal i am knows very well
that nature is our teacher and our mother
and god is just another
story that we tell
Clever aren’t we, three fingers and no toes, tripping lamp lights in order to stretch our own shadows to ceilings or through windows. Calm is a hue nearly grey on the cherry woodwork encasing tired old tomes like me. Funny thing is as books may say, the truth of the matter is more than people may want, it’s a matter of beauty being genuinely ingenuine and wholly corrupt, its beauty as a cross-hung wickedness that follows the corpse through boat-swung rivers. Passive aggression is what you are, a species derived from derision, long mounted in bass strung timbres about to rock the concreteness of the world you desire to live in. Walk past a bored one, a lonely one, a dire old dame, walk past yourself then in the same context, frame, obsession. Pointlessness. Fear. Pain. Words are words I suppose, stream lined by the usage, the everyday wear like tyre tearing on pavement, strips left off somewhere between the here and then, long out from the last stop made for gas. Funny thing is, the distance to joy is exactly 3635 miles, though its exactly 5 paces to adventure. Knapsacks are vessels for the life we wish to live, to bottle and travel and touch the earth that you may wish exists. Life never was intended to end at the borders you drew on yourself, there were the rickshaws and the damsels, the towers and the keeps, all jungles of tangles of hues of your psyche. It all means to you, everything it isn’t supposed to mean, because what you may have forgotten is that life is just this. Moment. Eccentricity. Hush.
Cheers.
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