fredag 13. januar 2017

Hiding myself in water.

Down by the watership, a town stands without an abbey. Furnace and stove, oven and grilled, smoke rises on the horizon. Nine lives for the feline, none for unmentionable objects. The tune turns thunder inside my head.

Choosing to live and let live, become life and reborn, half and whole, hole without edges or land line markers. Time progresses above your eyebrows.
The silence of the mind keeps churning.

You grind the flour into corn, you grind the teeth to dust and the agony of a dentist, you grind reputation for yet another useless faction that fractures the fraction you’ll forget come the next expansion.
Beyond treks past darkness and sunlight, you face mountains and cliffs without your Shepard. Musk and music mix and blend, create artificial light bulbs to intense incense playing with your fingertips. Husk. Husk. Do not be the dried one.
Streams of steam hunkering down the waterfall, cliffing the airfield away and on to purple. Church bells clime and dime with forgotten currencies of the many.

I do not speak for the Empire.
I stand apart.

I stood in rain. I stood in pits. I stood in falls.
Standing, giving gifts.

The gift of giving brings joy to the heart.
Crooked front teeth at the band member fronting the font. Fountain.

Unstimulated intellect.
Concrete mother.

Do you desire the one you cannot have?

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