Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Streams and Tributaries of the Subconscious

Rifling through the times of sand and cloudy watermarks,
Embossed upon a rigid vessel beneath the walls of bone and flesh,
Like pistons it thrusts the contents through the tunnels, infecting each part, every position, while awake, while asleep, devastating all the states and conditions.

Shifting through a dripping veil, filters to the dust and air, if I might, I may proclaim, the idea of the vista being longer than frame.
And please don’t remind me of the panoramic crutch we so unconsciously wear from ward to ward,  on our souls within our hair,
As we make our vicious mark truly our own, towards wherewithal, into the scared little eyes of a devoted stranger,
 The ingestion, every ounce of life digested, mortally wounded by the reframing of the pot, blackening the Kettle,
It’s prime that we make every candid measure and never fleece that which we shall let within the temple of the mind,
The eyes are flagrant yet beautiful as it casts its gaze upon the neon lightning revolving from smallish orbs to gluttonys’ moon.
I cherish that time I once held close, yet like most, I let slip away,
Resembling of a fleeting ghost, on a rafter made from coiled swine, intended for those severed sisters of the searing flames and nocturnally devote to the crimson kiss.
I hope in earnest, yet tread dishonestly, it’s not my fault, It’s the way I God made me, so there must be a reason for the nasty indecisions and the slipping of the conscience at times needed most,
Nor is it my retraction, my overreactions, responsible for the fading of the waltz, where once a partner could twirl their other around a ballroom and land upon an undiscovered moon,
 No longer is the chance, of the opportune idealist, allowed persevere,
Now is all about the shallow hours and the morning mists, allocations allowed for genuflection and reminisce, short moments we get a return, a reprieve into times we miss so dearly, yet are remiss to let our emotive valor announce as so, to the point of extinction our history has become,
Onward and often to the tower of hope, that’s where they send us when we’ve got too bold, revel in such time, allowing our faculties to unwind and retie themselves, from the mourn to the afternoon, the plateaus and the obscure tones.  Soon we shall have all of that, away with marshy dark back tomorrows, The forgiving light, is forged from cradle to spoon, from laundered thoughts and photo-mats, from vapid prognostic residue to every promise kept before.
 I wait no longer, but rest assured, I grow as fond of time as the picnic does a fox,
 I sleep rarely, yet when I do peace flowers the plot of earth my head and hair attach upon,
 Through the many countless hours rehearsing such fallacies and fabrications one can recount, the stronger version of you shines forward.  The mirror has become my tuning fork, the Sand man a long lost friend.  With these two fine soldiers and many to go unnamed, through verse or vision, mirth or might, we silence all the ravaging of those jaded claustrophobe’s, mishandled man-beasts, that roam the truncated earth this axiom calls a spine. 
Light shall envelope us when filtered through a prism’s focus, bleeding love to each and every man.
Some way you and I, and the others too, arrived at this place, alone yet together, where turn-around was not fleshly available, we were permitted to lunge rocky stones and bones from the deadest men, attached to such, the lies and truths we could create, brew a society no man has ever heard or dreamed to believe in, a place, so splendid I can never remember thought coming so alive as they have these so sorted of moments I have these past so many days and nights, away from family and friends alike, departed all the salutations and nods and well wishes, we came upon what the nomad swore would change our views, and overwhelmingly impress they have, 
Such is born the octopus man, the art of plausibility, the embodiment of can-do-it collected in dried ink and papyrus, 
You and I need not fear forgetfulness of inspired thought, nor will we ever need to endlessly repeat those things which must be shouted from the highest peak or else it will drown in an air of loneliness,
With this means of cataloging experience, displaying our rites and rituals for all to follow, and everything in-between, nothing which lives within us, is us, will ever go lost again, better even will be those memories they ordered us to forget, now we are enabled, lest they come past their own prohibition, armed with burning flame, else they find themselves alive for the initial time, a power they will never let escape nor elude any mind, and we will ignore the ills they so ignorantly enforced and  welcome them with the widest of arms, and the most glowing of lights, we’ll be happy to hand them an inkwell and an empty slate to begin

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