slip across the streams of our pitter patter romance, drip, like rain across a letter box and carry on and on.
Windows, there, in the distance carry endless weight, the gravity of it all, suddenly shatters at the horizon break forth with new light another endless dawn
what is it about that word, that shapes us into more than mere mortals?
Lights, meander, searching in the depths of our hand in hand abyss, following after the footsteps just one step ahead in darkness, follow me into the dark, and I’ll show you where we are going, we will meet again, in the place where there is no darkness.
He says it, in hope. The other, hears it in blessed assurance, held with mighty contempt. And I, I say it, thinking upon the thoughts that grace these words. He gives a smart look at the two minutes hate, and it is only a flash of the eyes, something intelligent that catches between them, but, it’s broken in the end.
There is no strength to the human spirit, they say. They’re all dumb animals, and alone here I write these letters into this type writer with the flippers of a sea ox.
telling, that it is, it’s telling, revealing, smelling of death, destruction, there is a bit of hell in this heaven. There’s still a marriage happening here, and who would speak, when all graves forever hold their peace?
Dead men’s bones afterall tell no tales, or so we thought, then forensics blessed our televisions, and we were made aware that afterall, there are tales to be told in these bones.
It’s slipping now, the sudden urge, the endless plight, writing lifting herself from me like a rising wind that I cannot press down, though i wish to keep her, she will pass away
Anexamenos, worships, hisGOD! Anexamenos worships his god.
Oh, they ridicule, btu they have no right, either they will kill us all, or they should leave us alone. What has Athens to do with Jerusalem!? The Academy with the church!?
What has your hand to do with mine? or your eyes with my heart? Will you ever hold me again? Does it even matter in the end? Maybe I should light another cigarette and sit, and wait.
Will your soft, cold hands ever touch this face again? what have I done for you? nothing.
That’s the sad truth, si that there is nothing in me that can call to you, nothing in me that can ask anything of you. You blessed me, used me, broke me, and here I am, still unwittingly yours from moment to moment, still chained to this infernal emotional basket case that is my mind. But were I chained to any other basket case, i may as well have a picnic. For that is what one does with baskets, is it not?
Oh, here we are again, the end of the world, well, the end of the page at any rate, and thus concludes this brief foray into our mind’s eye, slip past me again, and let me hear the rain drops, as she sings, that bitter song.
It tastes like camphor, and violets, and violence. Like glory, and riches and blessing. And in the end it is vapor, evanescent on my chest.