Wow!Thats pretty damn good,you sure you didnt copy it!!! Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! my friend also read it and has some thoughts, It was a well written peace of work, that i found very thought provoking an interesting. I was impressed.(end), me too Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
Thanx much. My friends (well, the 2 that I showed it to) liked it too. The funny thing is that I wrote that poem in 10 minutes. Most of the time I just get a line in my head and add on to it until I can't write anymore or I feel that It's finished. But, right, thanx!
Spiritual Armageddon Hark, now, the beast is marching on to Israel and there's a star in the east burning my eyes, wormwood falling, falling for this rotten mercy like a downward spiral playing a mourning orchestra for something without ears. And Jesus Christ is on his knees and the beast laughs because no one believes in anything anymore but their own apathy. I drank to escape it's morbid disarray to find the best tasting wine, but half of it was too diluted, losing its reassuring answer, and the other half would make me so drunk on answers I'd be lost in ignorant bliss. But I don't want it... No... I just want to listen to my phantom orchestra.
4A.M Rooftops copyrighted by sargentlard Treading between heaven and hell In the jungles of 4A.M rooftops And I see you trying to cry away the pain. Angels and devils. Both opposite and alike dancing their forgotten lust Cigarette smoke City lights, no discretion, all life stops And you are still trying to cry away the pain. Night long lost, waiting the hidden day No roads waiting to be walked on, no desire to stay. From green to red and another drop lands, Drop by drop Why are still trying to cry away the pain? Somewhere between silence and insanity, Self obtained epiphanies to self developed philosophies, Biting nails and vocal beat drops Making friends from shadows of 4am rooftops And I see you are still trying to cry away the pain. Wonderment of running in lack of space Embracing lack of sleep Embracing lack of grace The pain seemingly cried away No more tears on the face The eyes run dry, now just empty vessels of space Standing along with them childish visions of cross-town hops The rooftops asking “Are you still trying to cry away the pain?” Lying with you on the ground, visions of green stars The blue glow of TVs illuminating the black bars Holding hands, mental cosmic travels from the moon to the Mars Humming every note from the start to the stops. If the pain ever rides again, you know where it drops Just meet me here and my friends… ….the 4 A.M rooftops.
Though deadly disease has hit him thrice He still would not come over to nice His manner was mean, like a weapon He used it to live, he would not step in... To the valley of death.
she is earth, a lip chasm of seasonal eyes and silent skin a hazel tide of ceiling sky from moons of my abandon.
Riptide You're weak Because you have it all, and it's killing you. Transparent fool in a glass house One brick. Lights out. One ripple in your ocean creates a tide that drags you down And you've forgotten how to swim. Take it all with a gallon of bleach To disinfect and make pure the filth left behind. A fools cure to an end of the world Didn't you see it in those wild eyes? So asphyxiated by things without numbers attached. Saw you as a material girl without dreams Couldn't have been predicted by the prophets and the sages He just saw everything at face value Shunned you and waved as you smiled a goodbye. While you secretly hide behind your wall of shame. A counterfeit version of the real thing, Phosphorescent yet still the same. All these things you held for your own can be bought Can be burnt. Can be Used. Can be tossed away These things are transient and cheep It was priceless when he made you weep. You got the roses, the candy and the keys. You've got the house, the land, the life complete. The bottomless pockets to hold your mindless drivel. Empty pictures to hang on your wall. You've got it all. You throw it all in that gaping hole Try to fill that vast void of space Attempting to cover up that eyesore But a wall made of glass can be shattered by pride And a penniless pauper with the world at her throne Is found naked without her beautiful handwoven gown Remember that behind those walls You are weak.
I'll Be Back maybe we should stop before we start what don't you understand? makes perfect sense to me we're farther from the truth yet closer to reality don't forget about me dig a ditch. six feet deep three feet wide throw me in try not to weep i'll be back for you when you're in bed asleep. there's life after death it's promised to you i'm rubber you're glue don't forget about me i'll be back for you. six feet under hard to believe it came to this trapped under dirt free from your hurt i'll be back for you
Some random thoughts... ...When does forever begin? When do our lives start? How can today be the first day of the rest of our lives when there are so many days passed. Are they rendered numb, useless? Are they? They will never be again. They will never exist again. They are dead and cold. Yet somehow I am trapped within them…clinging to a few life-altering moments. And if I am clung so tightly to the past, am I not dead as well? I am drained, as empty as a corpse. This cold clotted mass has rested in veins of dust for what seems an eternity. I can't make the blood flow, I'm so cold. A breathe is all that keeps me, a breeze through my cavernous lungs...escapes my purpled lips. When I rest I feel as though I die, and when I stop, the wind sweeps the dust away...and there is nothing of me left. ...Have I honestly laughed at you, mocked you?Have I truly degraded you, while one glistening tear drop loomed in my eye, I wept inside, trust me.Everyday I break your heart, I tear my own into pieces.And now you hate me, I am your devout enemy, you despise me, and I blame you not.I am lower than anything you should e're bother yourself with, but I am the dirt that loves you...loves to whisper your name.When you tread o're my face, heed not the gasp, for that sound is the sound of pleasure...pleasure you do me by loving dirt so well. ...Sleep did not come easily, and I know not why. Though, when it did come, it was lovely as a dream, and I awoke of my own accord, with dew-filled eyes, and dream-filled heart, refreshed anew. What a vision, to be sweetly stirred to daylight by a gentle carressing breeze on ones cheek, like the soft touch of a doting lover. If everday to waken by such means, one would think the world a happier place, and much improved for it. A fear has of late grasped my heart, clutching so adamantly that it asphyxiates my spirit, and renders meek the once, much revered, tigress like soul. Oh, to be that tiger once again, fierce and proud. FK
This is one of my poems, I have a feeling that it's been blown into dust from all the amazing poetry I've read in this thread! Alive My heart is yearning, ripping apart with such fury that it explodes into a shower of blood red roses. It colours the wind with its ink of pure pink; a heaven kissed feeling that cannot be mistaken. A sword soars deadly into its base, all protection lost, like a black sky it ponders and waits. The piercing screams of pain devour your ears; they get inside your veins and steal away your soul. The pounding has stopped dead, the eerie silence is that stranger in the shadows, waiting, waiting... Suddenly like a lightening crash, a deep choking, light blowing you away from every angle. You feel your clothes being ripped off as tornado of delight throws you to your knees in defiance. Looking up a crystal blue sea flows towards you, gently as golden angels lure it from there midst. It flows through you, taking away your body and replacing it will pleasure, removing your eyes and sparkling in beauty. Your heart is glorious in this mystical aura, it springs magic from your fingers, everything you touch, everytime you breathe. White wings fly you, they soar you into an endless scene, you live, you die, you are ALIVE.
Arrogant, you call me. You who throw around the word like liquid pride dripping from your lips Those insatiable fingers pointed desperately at me And I am simply resting here, astride this hollowed boat Bowed head and outstretched arms Grasping for reflection What do you think I will see Who do you think that I am? When will these cardboard cutout accusations fall anywhere beside on my head? When will the world of paper people become real. Arrogant, you call me. You whose eyes are so choked with the smoke of your illusions that you forget what arrogance really is.
[english sadness song, this song is not sad] Burned in the fires of morning, burned in the Sun are the shadows of night, screaming and looking for a place to dissappear they are leaping over the light! Bright, bright is our song, we got rid of the sadness and death, rid of the hunger, rid of the plague, no priest of Christ could stand against, no slut of the East, our song is our god - magic of Merlin, magic of Taliesin! Oh, bishop, you hear us howling in unholy delight, you hear us howling in a mourning day and no saints are going to stop us, they are here playing on harps and the Devil claps in the rhythm of life! Burned in the fires of night, burned in the Moon are all the seers of the Church, screaming and looking for a place to die they are being chased by the frights singing our song! Come here, all wicked, let's dance with the witches and nuns who have become witches tonight, let's play a game of throwing axes under the light of the burning souls of hell, they are here with us tonight! And when bright shines the Sun, when comes by the Pope they all join in our merry song, forget all the sadness that there is in life; we are gods, this is our world, this is our world, this is our song!
Night of Endless Radiance (beat poetry) Night stares in at nature's abhorrent vacuum and engulfs you again in your own absence as you read your signature on each little cloud and the world is drifting drifting drifting across the face of the moon, a former lover, vaguely remembering another ruined century when Zen Buddhism was the wave of the future as magic was the wave of the past, and soon you'll be walking around town with your genitalia exposed, for originality is nature's zipper and those exposed are subject to rapid evolutionary change ---- each image with it's own little force field, invisible until it strikes the fields of other images like rays of light from stars viewed by people on a train heading into the northern Night and the endless rain forest shudders with its own reality --- thought charged with unassuming power to enter and alter the genetic code until you begin to resemble the thinker whose thought you most admire ----- hence the notorious Japanese reticence to show poetry to non-poets. And one is often moved to think with emptiness, not knowing what he or she is going to think, for the Night moves on familiar horseback through the hoof beats of ordinary life stopping only to comfort the afflicted and justify the ways of wealth to the rich as if the heart which knows such fullness couldn't bear to bare itself, and must hide under fresh clouds of naked words unable to cope with the nature of their unassuming power, and must protest such fullness in a blinding flash of flesh, and must refuse a moment's intimacy for fear of being overwhelmed for there can be no ambition, no argument in the face of a thinker thinking a thought. And you can only hope God will dress up and become visible like a bird or a snake with long eyelashes and tell you how wonderful you really are but this is what you feel about The Night, a mystical mansion afloat in a sea of blood, a mind that bursts with loveliness when it thinks, a mind aspiring to Nighthood, a mind that can, at will, vanish and reappear thousands of miles away a moment later, so that one can choose a mind at random and declare: "This is what it must be to be The Night!" for the light of illumination is not an earthly light, is not a light that anyone can chart, no sea of light, no gravity-bent sky of light, no light that spills over mountains like pails of milk, no light that grows like flowers on the sea, no light that points at buried pots of gold, no light that one can detect and track like wild beasts or enemy ships in the radarless North Atlantic, no ancient pots of light on ocean floors, no lonely little light lost in a forest of light and hoping to be discovered and made a star, not even a spark that makes a turbine turn. There is nothing abstract about this light, it is neither electrical nor solar but can only be called a radiant blackness, the radiance of the mountains in the interior ignored by the smug inhabitants of the coast, a sudden turning up of diamonds in the darkened cardgame of the inmined mind. This is Night's eternal radiance which, in a moment's penetration, heals forever the cancers of the modern soul and plunges it into its own millennial adoration. And there is only one test for true minds: if they were to jump into the sea en masse would dolphins save them and with them on their Quasimodo shoulders disappear in the moonless Night bound for Ancient Isles of Splendor ? II The Night, the Night, the milky Night, where does it end ? It spills over its own borders until there is no trace of those borders and not even the milky Night itself silently drunk with its own silent illumination can remember where those borders were. The stars are the Night's stigmata. Only the stars themselves in ordinary space and the occasionally mysterious conflagration shimmering briefly on illusory horizons remind the Night that it is the Night. The Night rides the earth like a knight who has found a thousand holy grails and stabs the heart of each pregnant sleeping woman at the very moment she awakens. The Night is mad with its own desire to continue being the Night for the Night is so profoundly radiant that there is nothing else worth being though there is always the danger of becoming, or being mistaken for, the day. The Night does not know what day it is nor has it any notion of its self-illumination. The deaf shall inherit the Night Miscellaneous crowds of apes swarm in an out of the Night like schools of dolphins crossing imaginary equators, like disappointed saints disowning their sainthood at the end of their lives, and the Night is a spider who has built a flawless web in the fork of a branch about to be pruned, a Night where demons orchestrate their dire straits, where pies are opened and birds fly out, and darkness is another kind of light. The Night is all depth and no surface. The Night is a medicinal herb. III The advantages and disadvantages of existence, the development of the capacity to perceive consciousness at first hand or even second, whether to return groceries you've picked up at the market by mistake and haven't paid for --- these aspects of the "argument with the self" form the basis for the cellular hum that slips in and out of consciousness like a mirage, a metallic encrustation slipping in and out of the Dewdney radar field and creating a ghostly wind that has probably canceled by now your memory of having found this poem under a carpet of moss and pine needles, the ink running, the pages curling and discolored, the visual music speaking of a magnetic reality where nothing exists that is not seen, where music and obscure tactile sensations drift along peripheral halls and through doors of deja vu and overwhelm you with their antique forms and you open yourself to further dissolution for you are a hunting animal and must find each throbbing moment and destroy it as in your sleep you sacrifice each dream on the sacred altar of your tongue. IV The advantages and disadvantages of having a flower garden: how many rose petals would it take to fill a mattress or smother a tiresome accordion player who has been babbling on too long about your beloved as if she were merely a part of the dull murmur bleeding under the world's fat linguistic veneer, each cell in ceaseless argument with its neighbor, each cell imprisoned in its own cell ? Warden, treat your cells well and you won't get cancer. And the Night bandits, instead of being captivated by the beauty of your naked mind, will be unable to resist your cellular cries of woe and with their passkeys will infiltrate the cellblocks. For your death is a breakdown of all that is dull and even slightly predictable, another mysterious reality where nothing exists that has not been set in wondrous rhyme. And by now you are burning with enormous passion and have forgiven the imperfections of this world, your generosity causing electromagnetic waves of ecstasy to break on the heavy hearts of unknown dreamers burdened with the creation, preservation and destruction of tiny intricate models of the universe. But art isn't the sort of thing one speaks of in private. V An absence of music, not made by blowing into brass tubes or hollow reeds, an unforced absence, a vacuum strayed from the myriad influence of surrounding music, storming from the radiance that separates each clod of earth from a quietude of the heart, producing a music too slippery to cling to or even to apprehend, moves slowly along the Perdernales river valley and awakens the deer with amorous touches and causes men and women to become wobbly with desire, the a Night radiant mosaic of soft glories, the cities of the eastern hemisphere all in flames. Somewhere a wounded man is getting to his feet randomly from a limited number of possibilities and every dream he has ever dreamt is suddenly in his head like a fire-line packed away in a fireproof box at the end of a wooden wharf on a small lake surrounded by endless forest two hundred miles east of Austin, a dash of red pepper pie in the sensational sky, dear reader. And that man was you, Eric Johnson. Look at this, a map of Texas in the shape of a heart, the Chisos little dimples full of tears and earnest restraint, a country of the open heart where serenity is composed line by total-lack-of-ambiguity line, perfect, perfect. "This perfection has become overly elliptical," sang I one time on a mountain during a west-Texas sunset "and you'll never succeed in your search for someone who will understand your naked mind almost as well as you understand it yourself on days when you almost understand it. Everyone knows it's not easy for you the way butter drips through the palm fronds, gangs of midget bandits ignore you along the length of Night's passionate beach, Sappho decides to return bearing streams of non-specific rainbow energies and no one wants to hurt your pride by telling you your dreams sound as if they were all invented." You try to explain how so much depends on the way Miles Davis was playing in 1950 but no one listens, not even the whispering crowds of time travelers masquerading as rosy velvet puffs of consciousness in the middle of Service Station Nightmare. "Only midgets have the intelligence to understand this terrible public behavior," they taunted, and one velvet puff stepped forward, smiled, and asked that his name, a famous one indeed, not be mentioned, yet as he spoke it was obvious he was anticipating the simplicity of his own unfettered ego, and when he said he wanted to everyone to know he'd be available whenever needed and would do whatever was required, one could sense a certain frivolity was mixed with his desire to do battle with those who ignore the soul-filled cries of the purest soul of any age. VI "These are the things they said to one another under the rim of earth where Death is lord." These are spells designed to enlighten the author and these are messages written while on the road and left behind to help him find the road again when Night has fallen and friends are few and there is no room at the metaphor, nothing but what you see in your everyday life. And these are dreams seen in times of darkness, private dreams becoming public and at play with one's private views of public dreams, dreams struggling to be free of convention then abandoning the silly struggle to be perfect and thereby becoming perfect as the sky is perfect or as the world would be in the absence of those dreams, the public mind struggling to create a private dream and struggling to create the conditions of freedom that would allow private dreams to find their own perfection, for there is a turning point when the struggle ends forever, a Night of endless radiance. But the Night will always be haunted by a notion that the morning will bring a return to an age when everything elaborate dreamt was as elegant as the elaborate warnings Odysseus gave the suitors, Odysseus he dreamer returned at last to find his heart's desire being pulled to pieces by the modern age. And what dreamer could you name who wouldn't be shocked and reminded of a maddeningly purer existence experienced in some ridiculous prenatal eternity by the sight of a golden Thracian drinking vessel bearing a daring pattern of black heads, goat-headed snakes, acorns and armored knights appearing in his or her early afternoon mail? And the tide goes in and out, civilizations fall into the sea, and entire generations are born grossly deformed, alienated forever not from beauty and proportion but from a way of being in which one can never be alienated from beauty and proportion, and whatever action the individual human being performs is full of dreams and flawless unpremeditated grace. Yet these are but the arts of peace, peace that has so much in common with war, Night that has so much in common with radiant day, for in either there is nothing more to do than observe dreams with modest but mindless respect, a respect that moves through a world impossible to understand, a moment impossible to understand, yet filled with the power to create in the mind the purity of the pre-dawn when the songs of the forest birds and the cries of the sea birds touch the soul like the lips of a beloved saint and spasms convulse the floating heart until it cannot hold back, it simply must explode and fill the Night with endless radiance and even the Prince of Darkness is enlightened and remains silent, unbreathing, overwhelmed with grievous remorse, shocked at the cruel stupidity of his life, his bones white hot and radiant in the pockets of intelligent flesh, his inner organs softly moaning with the joy of enlightened existence: "All is forgiven." VII ---- The old millpond reflected the flowering horse chestnuts on a blue spring day like an eye, a watery, slightly scum-covered eye. And at Night , after the fall of Night, when the eye blinked shut, the flowering horse chestnuts could be seen playing chess. At midnight the earth glowed with fabulous color and a pulse passed through the soft forest as if the air had just become conscious of the sadness of unknown gods and goddesses at having to bar humanity from paradise. It's for your own good, they cry. Try to see things from our perspective or, if you can't, from the perspective of the glowing plasmic sadness at the center of the soul of the earth, for the Incas of South America, it is said, were massacred because they seemed so weird. Yet it is time for instant coffee, and through the window tiny green leaves of spring are vibrating like furry rabbits mating in the wind. She mentioned the Inca massacre in her suicide note. She'd never developed the habit of closing her eyes when she laughed, and as she laughed you'd have the pleasure of seeing her staring at you like a wild flower, for when the heart is opened each beat is the charge of a velveteen bull and what instinct will be left when the instinct for beauty is finally extinct? The instinct of tyrants trying to persuade you they have something worth hearing when all they have to do is open their hearts and in their speech you'll find snake-like figures at the great doorway of heaven bidding you enter! And so you enter! And suddenly you are back on earth at midnight, the countryside glowing with fabulous color. You've been over this terrain a thousand times and suddenly the road signs mean nothing and just as you decide never to return from heaven you find you've returned, your heart as impossible to ignore as a flowering horse chestnut tree. What would the world look like without the eye, the watery and slightly scum-covered eye, the glowworm preening on the end of a long green stalk after millennia of blindness? The eye does not snap open, it opens with the slow emotion of a brain that has not yet been born, a sacred organ that knows its existence depends upon a billion years of devotion to the vague idea of light, congregations of apes worshipping the moon and stars all born in the dawn of the eye. The eye pops open like a pair of lips and an egg pops out. The pupil is an earnest pupil and quickly learns the facts of light. And if you look quickly you will see new-hatched ospreys fluttering from the distant orb. And this is what the thin king was thinking: the mind is a diamond the size and shape of the holy grail. VIII Your heart is the source of Night's radiance and music enters your heart like blood, the heart a perpetual motion machine pumping in great relentless troughs and crests and the view of the stars is blocked by a giant pine. The Florida manatee weighs a thousand pounds and it giant heart is continually melting. And the seagulls of Galveston bay can astonish you with the lazy turning of their awful cries, the cries the heart would make if it were beaked. For this is the country of the open heart where to draw a breath is infinitely strange and where at times you'll forget that you don't know who you are and what you're here for like a long line of monosyllabic footprints tracking across the beach and into the sea. But the music will enter your heart like blood and rainbows will explode inside your clothes! And the sea will tell you of your lost instincts and you will enjoy standing on your heart as the Night stands on the knight's heart and sudden flares illuminate comfortable horizons which suddenly take to the air and land on the other side of rows of pyramid-shaped fast food outlets. For your most unforgettable dream evolved from a universe that is rapidly contacting, an intelligence with a sword in its heart, dying, a universe in which everything is also a garden the center of which is a giant eye that never closes and never heals. And what is most delicious is the loneliness, most painful the persistent knowledge that you have not suffered enough, that you have enjoyed the sweetest realizations while entire cities have been burnt alive, schools of dolphins sobbing with uncontrollable sorrow, and you with your pockets overflowing with plastic lips, each with a diamond the size of a tongue-tip at the end of it's tongue. But the Night goes on forever, its dark reptilian attention burning diamond-shaped patches in the garden of cardinal sin while intelligent smoke pours into the sky, and some day you'll return from your sojourn among the golden isles of mythic romance and with empty eyes you'll approach your birthplace and will refuse to tell of what you've seen and in retaliation your childhood friends will become godlike again. But you'll be able to draw a face on the wall and no one will bother trying to understand, for you have returned in the divine Night of endless radiance which surrounds you and is closing in like new flesh around a bloody wound, and your mind slithers like smoke in the crack between an object and its field of space and a little mercury figure as bright as the sun holds the world aloft from its hollow center in brilliant flame, with pride, as if it were a giant globe weighing but an ounce, and like two virgins on an elephant's back Night and the brokenhearted universe experiment with each other's nerve ends and dream of an ancient world aching to be born along the length of the passionate beach. IX The Night is afloat in the mind of the dreamer, an unusual sort of Night, in its way as unusual as the Night of the living dead, and it contains a billion years of evolutionary light from the stars and the soft light bathing her features has oozed out of the pores of her poor skin like mist swirling in the early morning hills. Her arm hangs like a falling star. And with each beat of her heart the earth cools and a spaceship shoots off into interstellar seas, and somewhere within that single pulse you see yourself being born and dying, nothing to be excited about, and you might see a man dreaming of mermaids and keeping a Florida manatee in his bathtub, for radiance gleams on Night's imaginary surface as phosphorescent chemicals glow in the sea and the Night's imaginary surface lies along the length of the passionate beach of banditry where your loves and your hates are incestuous screens on which you project your life. Here, in Night's magical radiance where you can have anything you dream of, women everywhere were laughing themselves to death and men were leaving meaningless messages for future generations. The Night is afloat in the mind of the dreamer and the one-eyed light of an approaching train becomes an illuminating flower from heaven and the world is a station where such glorious light shines through occasional chinks to illuminate the halls of hell. The radiant flower was warm, with a passion that plunged forth courageously into further dimensions of awe (the sound the heart makes as it opens a little further). Every day you age two days and every Night you become one day younger for time stops when the sun goes down and the dreamer's life falls apart for there are too many patterns to smash and the one pattern she wants can never be found and the quiet path through the quiet woods keeps branching and before the branches reconverge her life will be all but over, and as soon as one path is chosen it too branches until she becomes trapped in her own originality, lost in a grain of sand inexhaustible as a star. For the mind works better when completely naked, solemnly flashing in the middle of the Night like a beacon of incredible flesh, a wild blossom blinking music into deepest space. And the dreamer is afloat in the radiant Night Even her phone is off the hook. And the occasional chinks were tiny windows in the endless halls of hell where fear and dull convention served as the cruelest tools of torture eternity could devise. And the dreamer, mindless, strangely afloat, drifted up to one of these random cracks in the character armor of hell, a slot awash with heaven's intelligent light, and she placed her blissful eye up against the slit as if it were a voyeur's keyhole or the entrance to her mother's womb and the world beyond, and after the sensitive orb adjusted to the light she sighed and saw in perfect focus and 3-D form screaming children with their flesh falling off leaping into the sewers of Hiroshima X Sunset is a time of consolation, sunrise one of experience, and between the velvet rays of Night dissolve the mind-carved blocks that damn the noblest spiritual aspirations and create a prison for the most light-hearted dreams, a tomb for youth, bottomless quicksand for all that is quick. The blocks dissolve in tremendous foam and mist and the human race is once again united amid sacrificial feasts and that which animates one animates all until the origin of consciousness is finally understood and everyone sleeps in one another's heart dreaming they're reliving past lives, arms and legs entwined like lazy musical theories unable to differentiate their own identities. And they are so happy happiness loses its meaning and evil is waxed corpse in a glass case with thousands of angels waiting in sublime lines to gaze briefly at such embalmed splendor amid sudden visions of copulating snakes and images of Miss Universe contests. Night is a planet blocking its own light and the furious joy of angels in heat enters the world like perfumed rain. Old men on their deathbeds finally regret having spent their lives at war with their senses. Watermelons left lying in the moonlight suddenly pop like popcorn. The Night has fourteen rigid principles. The Night is constantly brushing its teeth. The Night is afraid of the dark. The Night blinded Homer on a bet. XI The personality goes down like a raw egg, like a young kid with new skates who goes out and scores two goals to win the Stanley Cup. And there is a certain randomness in infinity as if you could reach out to the North Star and grab hold of any kind of magic you desire. As when you were a child beginning to read there were mysterious curtains and screens of myth receding into the brilliance of the past. As when you were middle-aged, face to face with indescribable fate, you felt like a flipped coin poised in the air: heads your future, tails your past. As when you were old, the Night moving over you like the blunt instruments of amorous flesh, and you regretted the patterns of your lies, lies reflecting a life of dull convention, a life predicting widespread nuclear warfare by next Christmas and the Florida manatee eats thirty pounds of vegetation every day. This is the Night of endless radiance when all legends and myths will be placed on instant replay: Columbus spots a Florida manatee and thinks he's discovered a mermaid, her scales gleaming and all is well, it's a pleasant world, as if you're about to remember where you buried a stash of diamonds in a previous life and it's all there waiting for your recovery. For the beautiful dreamer who used to live across from the Armadillo World on concert Nights was transported by the roar of the crowd when the band came on-stage and that is how she became interested in levitation and, naturally,]the band played far beyond human knowledge as much as the intensity of their individual radiance would allow and there is always the danger of levitation in such moments, guitarists suddenly floating high above the stage with Night closing in and falling into the heart of the beautiful dreamer. And the movement of the planets, comets and asteroids raises and lowers the hair of your flesh and each star has a billion stories to tell and the tongue of a poet to tell them with. XII You are examining a leaf on a tree in the vast northern forests, a grain of lust, a raw oyster and the sensation as it slithers down a single throat out of which blossoms a subterranean voice, yet the throat tries to maintain with its voice the same kind of intimacy that exists between a couple through years of careless love or the kind of identity existing between a farmer and his fields and the kind of interfusion existing between cloud and sky. And the mind expands like a bloating corpse. The mind reaches out until it touches another mind. The mind's shape is dictated by the shape of the minds surrounding it. The mind is touched on all sides by other minds. The mind is an eye at the keyhole of all the minds surrounding it. The mind is a transparent brick, a membrane enclosing hogs and pyramids and covered with heavenly secretions. The mind has qualities seldom considered and can provide comfort in times of stress. Indeed it possesses the ability to emit spontaneous waves of sympathy and to predict general weather patterns. It has an ability to disappear, a love of appearing and disappearing here and there, an ability to ejaculate on demand, an ability to attract razor blades, iron filings, and like minds. It has an ability to feel at any given time what has never been felt before and to suffer sorrow for dying soldiers in ancient wars. An ability to entertain the Night as a trained bear entertains a crowd. An ability to train invisible ponies. An ability to love itself with an absence of passion more intense than passion itself. An ability to love itself without thought. An ability to know and remember nothing but that which is absolutely necessary for survival. An ability to destroy itself. An ability to destroy its ability to destroy itself. An ability to record, erase, play back and fast forward. An ability to see itself wherever it looks. The mind has never been mined! At the moment the mind's love for itself disappears the mind disappears and mythological creatures come tumbling over the horizon. Columbus mistakes a Florida manatee for Miss Key West. My grandfather sprinkles salt and pepper in a pine forest west of Lake Superior. A bouquet of blue irises bursts into flame. But before it vanishes the mind finds itself unable to ignore the proliferation of coincidences all the more touching because of their triviality and persistence. The hog's ears appeared in the tall grass. Enormous pyramids appeared across the lake. XIII Night thoughts are bandits unable to resist the beauty of the naked mind for the find the mind most beautiful when completely naked. This diamond the size of the holy grail reflecting everything all at once becomes a voluptuous magnet attracting exotic Night thoughts from distant planets and again these bandits have kidnapped the naked mind in spite of the great risks involved for a band of radiation surrounds such nakedness and as the band of bandits approaches the band they must devise waves of passing through without being dissolved instantaneously into radiant particles of quickly dispersing static and each new bandit must be more and more cunning and this is how philosophy is born. The bandits were weary. They'd traveled from another hemisphere and were wandering down the passionate beach, sighing, cursing, wishing they'd never heard of enchantment. And the waves rolled in at their feet, wave after wave of natural radiance. And the bandits sighed again and listened to the collision of trillions of particles of sand and the sudden subsiding of the curious crests. And teams of celestial apes with high-powered jeeps and rifles roam the countryside: the apes of wrath, each ape with a diamond the size and shape of the holy grail on the end of his neck. And how they love to kill one another! They hang each other on ropes and tie each other to stakes and then set fires. The moans, the screams. The stars start staring and become startled. And the pencil casts a long shadow as civilization disintegrates again and even saints love to cancel one another out. But the mind is never naked, the mind can never be aware of its nakedness for the concept of a naked mind implies the stripping of the mind's ability to know its own nakedness, a condition of innocence so profound the first thing to go is the notion of innocence. And the bandits no longer felt weary. They looked at each other and saw nothing but the waves splashing on the grainy sand, phosphorescent waves in blackest Night, waves insisting on being seen by human eyes as if their glorious music wasn't enough with its moaning tear-filled climaxes causing a tremendous shudder to fill the equinox every ten or fifteen seconds along the length of the passionate, jam-packed beach. For it is not the mind that proclaims its own nakedness and perfect innocence but rather that which surrounds the mind, the new romance that moves around it as water moves around each school of fish, the waves that splash on the sand-witched beach and witness the sudden absence of the bandits for the face that stares out of the mirror is at least as alive as your own. The innocence of a bubble that has burst! And the bandits sat down and sadly listened to celestial eastern music and as they listened they simply vanished, ceased to exist and only the waves and the bewitched sand seemed to be left. Like the story of Ramakrishna who saw two boatmen angrily exchanging blows in the middle of the Ganges and marks from the blows immediately appeared on his body, and then a truck went by and everybody on the street screamed but Ramakrishna merely smiled because it was still the nineteenth century and motor vehicles had yet to be invented. XIV Spring came early last year and produced incredible dimensions of beautiful banditry much of it frankly excessive and produced unusually radiant Nights with the sunset's afterglow hanging in the sky till the fourth false dawn started telling the truth and everyone slept thinking all was well, never dreaming an ugliness terrifying in its banality was spreading over the world with dozens of dead and dying dolphins lying along the length of the compassionate beach. And a ferocious longing for lost beauty was being attacked in the ring like a bull while the crowds cried and the bull died and the spirits of saints hovered in the skies and a butterfly vomited on John Keats' notebook and fluttered away like a tiny Pegasus bearing a wagon heaped with the corpses of tiny dreams and the hog's ears appeared in the tall grass and a pyramid appeared in one of the ears. But only two per cent of the civilian population saw anything, the remainder blinded by their continual lust for personal glory and an arrogance that will never melt into the ordinary radiance of the heart. And people you have never met but who could have been your dearest friends are disappearing in the monocles Night while the forest labors to understand the sound of passing motor vehicles. And people you have never met appear crazily in your memories, hungering for acceptance, ridiculing you for your lost emotions, the quickly fading pages of a splendid lack of horror ---- And someone you have never met smiles as he stands there reading your mail, preparing a modest meal with his one free hand --- for the horror is a relic of a radiant mind and at your heart's core lies the flesh made word in a tiny pocket of tears where that which can happen nowhere else can happen, a mathematics of existence that is heading blindly into outer Night where a world is being transformed again and again. And at this moment, entering your body, is a spirit the size of a baseball stadium as if the sewers of Hiroshima were flooded with dreams, with stacks of creamcheese sandwiches on small rafts, and here and there a ladder leading down to a place where long-lost friends have snowball fights in summer meadows and peaceful gardens of no desire where in pools of warm mud fresh constellations of human eyes stare up at a starry sky, and the moon like an ancient bard sings of Night while the stars, lesser medieval rhymesters sparkling like rare pop bottles from the forties, whisper magic formulae into the ears of aged astronomers gazing into knobby telescopes. And people you have never met are living their lives in remote Tibetan villages waiting for you to pass through and be transformed by their overwhelming beauty, a beauty only you can see, so that your life becomes bent like light passing through a black star, a warp that will ache and ache forever and you can watch movies every day and scan crowd scenes in slow motion and you will never find yourself or anyone else you could possibly be for you are trapped in the trap you set for others like someone trying to swim Lake Superior with Lakes Michigan and Erie strapped to his back, poetry a process for stabbing the heart with heart-felt lines of icy darkness, poetry the art of darkness, and tiny people swim for the furthest shore in the red glow of a Texas sunset, each frantic swimmer and entire universe hoping not to die and laughing playfully as his or her lungs fill with real blood along the length of passion's peach-strewn beach. And on this spot three thousand years ago stood a beautiful naked boy, a string of fish in each hand.
i write lyrics like that in less than a minute... its really weird words flow thro my pen or pencil... then i review the words and it makes sense! it is my special talent, haha and yet i dont know how i do it
if sum one gives me sumthin to write about... ill try and see how it sounds Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! especially about emotions, er hate , er love or JUST wat ever :m:
i smiled into a fading wind, as i realised time had come.. i kept on smiling, perserviring thro the wickedness, time is onli a matter of your self, go now or forever hold ur peace...' its time to move on and wake up to a wiff of a fragrance called reality.... (own lyrics : beauty of moving on)
a part of life ripped like a violent rage totally wasted cuz of an inhibitor selfishly taken and never looked back to hurt this much is the worst feeling deep depression. deep broken emotional twists cant comprehend.. its not supposed to be like this torn from the normal and thrown into a different perspective for now im the one not happy yet i have to kill this moment and move on... NO self-sympathy.. none at all....
