28 March 2012

For Oeil Refineries and the Apoplectic Necessity [Giving Happenstance]

"You could follow me back to where we met.
But what have you been dreaming of?
I'm going to live, but I'm living far away.
I'm going to die. I'm dying for a way out."

Its not so easy in this dreaming, this rapidash hush and hum revolving in the neon blooms. Too long we've been wasted by lamplight brooding from the dark and earnest, the can't tease. And I wonder what this wire-framed chaos portends, why it chides me with these eviscerations. The mottled derision of success.
What you may perceive in this unaccompanied absence, if absence it is, is no more feeling than the grafting bone and pin driven marrow. We are no more what the other believes than we are as we pretend to be, two shadows in tandem twilight lilting at the speckles of luciferase chafing our chins. Phosphorescent chimes welded in the camphor heat sultry-stuck to our skin. How these dogged blooms can be so baffled to take such grounding, do deny the buoyancy felt across the costals pulling dull and urgently.
Some obelix we are. The time drawn out across us otherwise unknowing that anything once passed or presented. Should it go on, the whole of it to be lost to recognition-- perhaps we will yet be gravity's failed endeavor.