Saturday, June 20, 2009

Kata Sarka

Flesh, blood, thought, vision. What's a man to do? Senses overloaded, fuses blown. There was another time, when things were different....somehow. Better even. There was a time.
It's still now. Cold. Slowing down, things are always slowing down.
Confusion, mystery, wonder. A thousand wonders. What's a man to do?
If I were another, I'd be another, and another, and another. If I were one, I would be one. Just one.
There seems to be a malady, a malaise. There seems to be a softening of mores.
A new dawn, a new day, a new me, a new you. All of these things new, today. Everything is new. Everything is knew.
According to the flesh, the blood, the mind. According to the heart, the soul, the sight. Each of these things, according to its own, each of these its own virtue, each of these a gift, each of these a part, a part of man.
First there was fire and stone. Then Iron. First there was flesh and bone. Then steel. First there was moon and star. Then heaven. First there was time and space. Then man. And after man: nothing.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

So U Zee Yourself

One last dance. A song upon my lips, a dream within my head, a vision. Still that image lingers, lives more abstract now.
Awkward, painful, and more awkward still.
The first, the last, the same.
Gardens emerge, names endow, venture always.

Friday, June 5, 2009

OK OK I'll post again

Most people don't like a maniac...that is if they know he's a maniac. Which is to say, if they'll listen, or open their eyes. The clues are always there, usually in plain sight. Why aren't the pieces put together, why are they always taken apart? Smashed apart? Torn open like flesh. A pipe clashes with a smile. Teeth are broken. Somewhere someone is crying, bleeding, thirsting. Somewhere someone is...someone is.
In the dead of night a woman's calling: A siren song from on high. Should I prostrate myself? Swear my fealty? Or does my foolishness run even deeper? Upon the rocks I cast myself. A thousand times I cast myself, yet still the banshee shrieks. No mercy--not for the wicked.
Regret is the blanket of a fool, his dreams his bed. And in the moment of his waking he despises himself. Upon the rising of the sun despises himself. He awakens with the same thought with which he shuts his eyes each night.
All be beyond yours.