22 September 2005

Persnickity, Maybe, but with Handlebar Ties

we should shine a light on
a light on
the book of right-on's right on
it was right on

You feel it at the edge, an itch and dry heave all rolled up in keratin and foil rubbing and ruining the paint stained dimples. It can't claw forever, not this deep, this rich and vibrant incising like a gaff before a howl. It rasps the sanity just corroding at feverish pace sinking deep and lithely humming its tuned derision. Pot stills and wheel-wound buzzes shifting in anti-climatic gravity seem to blue your seal and sand, like a depravity marks out blanching the bend in logic, making sure that some kind of half-eaten wall of a soul still stands for sale. You want to poke through the skin and scrawl out your fingertips signing off on a contract life owed to the darker closes and their frosted crpyt-ic smoke. Two cloves and a black wool coat, a feeling of movement without rotation, chances are its all coincidental, the acid and silver slit eyes wandering, but why throw out perfectly good conjecture when the occult thrives on thrill and totem. You might pass a fancy, or pause at a misplaced progression; you might think it’s rather a heavy box for being empty. But the wooden splinters keep slicing down your throat, jagging hard carved words like truth and sensibility... mania. Keep containing those nasty first impressions, keep weighing your soul with your hands, just sieve the sentences you trail off in and pray that there's meaning.
There's something wonderful here. Cracked joint and simple tick-click, chances are you missed it. He's looking for his destiny, looking for his god, but where in man would you hide divinity except in a still brewing concept of creation.

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