The thing is kids. Jesus returned and continues to return. Throughout history he has appeared as a Teacher and again we kill him. The crucifixion which was a magikal ritual allowed him to split his observer personality into many separate timelines.
You will never find enlightenment from another human being. Don’t be an Ashram tramp. Rattling through the timelines I know I need to take an audit of the swirls and lines of the whole journey but I can’t be bothered really, but picking things up with the end antenna, the council estate PyschRadio enthusiast, the constant threatener.
Here and now. The spread of it does make me a little sick. Not the big sick. It’s smaller brother called ‘Ache’ but don’t worry. All this is just camouflage and meme driven. It’s just passing phases in criss crossed traffic light lasers. It’s all a thing, an illusory thing. This soundscape driven by constant bass and that stare you get when you tread on the toes of the demiurge. It’s the sound of ominous mopeds and your new phone disappearing down the road in the hands of one of them. Is it all real? Of course it is. I can’t write lies here, it’s too precious.
Cursed Nurses scatter under the weight of pain and they flutter a little, bouncing their ass against the tight cotton, the comfy shoes and the 4am blues. What has it to do with me? 7Seconds babycakes. A simple kiss under the flickering tubes and the sticky fingers shoved deep into pockets and you ask ‘was I not the one then?’ and I have to laugh as you are all ghosts in the machine, the afterbirth in the cream baby.
Rocket Ron Parsons nose, mad flicking through the internet to find a price for it at least. A way to gather the shit together to make another jump into alternaties. But this one is bad enough. The Trump thing, the Korea thing, the Chinese and the Russians all tangle up until mind acts as blocked toilet. Filled with acrid turd, choked and filled. Seeking emotional outlets in dogma ridden social media and the best new thing. Your viewpoints are redundant. You have to climb the hill of shit to get a good view of the whole thing.
Illusions and delusions you set the way for why, I fear, neither of us know. Even though I cloak myself with sin. I still wonder at the truth of it. We wait for Revelations, that never come, we desire that which remains undone. A deeper love to plot the course, among the vile headstones. Lost and bitter weed choked lives, to lust, and riddles forgotten. The Salad days have come and gone, we run with Demons at our heels. Moments pass, and secure delights, we wring our hands over boxes.Suffer the condition borne, Break free to allow soft remembrance. Gather the robes and sheets, cover unholy heads in soft lights. Beg indifference and ignorance, our hearts are hidden. I beg and suffer on bended knees, a beaten Horse too quick to bleed. But we look under our fallen hair, the stricken nights too hot to bear. Altar freaks abound and laugh, but still you remain aloof. The story never ends at the beginning but the final gasps. In our ignorance we plead and stamp, the narrow gauge the sodden tramp. The urgent messages through prayer, light sufferance shrieks in the air. God inside us and without, a lash to glean an abject penance. A corner to cry within and still you listen? As children we moan in ignorance. Will you rescue me from this subtle bliss, this ignorance as I feebly prod at dark things? Knowledge like sand between the fingers, books as gravestones, pages as shrouds. Intent we are, on minor tragedies. We lack capacity and skills to feed. The darker parts inside, we know exist, unlit, unfathomed, a Lake of bliss. For tangled hearts are wont to bleed to fulfill that darker natural need. A desire untold to pick up arms, to brandish and foul favoured waters. Save me please, and let me know. Where these waters spring and flow. I stumble again and cut fair hands, blood skilled, broken backed bastard. You stand knowledge unbiased, while we blather and scream. An unknown system, lost hearts, and still we dream….a little. Pleasured Souls lack vision I suppose. As we delight in tearful repose.Walk the rain soaked streets, unaware. Of safe hands on shoulders. Blessed are you, they were right. Your name called in darkest nights. Fire the fearful heart, a prayer for the dying arts. Under the Oak wood we gather, we know the powerful ease. In which you suffer the innocent, and let us howl like animals. Gather the Veils and the Blind, lead them not unto elation.Deliver them from Seasons,and wretched continuity.
The corpses of their battles thicken the grass, their loves finger the setting sun and cry out.
But I have no fears for them who grind through their days, aching for those they love.
I laugh amongst the filth and cry out with them in mockery. What amusement as they cry, what drama.
Their words loaded with lies and untruths, their false loves and goaded sex. Have I not stuck the knife between their ribs enough times for them to be silent? Their flags are stained with the blood they spilled themselves. In their dark nights I seem an entertainment a passing thing. But I weep no more I think except in cold winds. But for the warmth a tighter cloak than flesh does me. The whine of the world runs free.They love and hate do all the things they love.But rather I would sink to a knee and eat soaked earth.
Than allow my heart to be sealed again. There are no songs for you dearest things, never more.
The tighter my grip on a sword, eyes set on further shores.
It’s never that interesting till it becomes a secret a mere fad a handy gadget for the masses a sore pumped whore a masterful stroke and above it all a shit stained Pope Who pays the Grand Rabbit the payers price the garlands sicken and fall who finds the White Room finds it all the garrulous braves of spotlights the sickening blast of bass a liars chair settled in and yet the matter stands for those in government lack the hand to firm and smooth the wattled sails a sickened heart again left to stand the White room beckons after all its poet stance hand held and still we glean the Butchers look an inch too far another cut and the marble relief points Arcadia subtle landscape that twists ever on and the grave of a dog has flowers the finger crooked lies and on the windowsill a box. Catch hell and hold the finest drop be told this loosened grip of wind rattled clothes. a lost shoe a tumbled dance of ever hastening end we grasp and try to hold but bitter tears never let go grip the edge and let the fingers relax and blast the communion and the Holy relics the last time to relax watch the fading dot of light castigate the fallen a final dishonour the world burns but for a glass of water just out of arms reach drop and let it fade the pantomimes and the plays…
I just wrote the shit for her to get in her knickers and while I’m there being metaphysical she’s getting fucked by everybody except me. But I would rather point my finger at my own work than pontificate on finger fucking. Yes, run off and do your thing. Fluff/Pintrest/ and fling. The lines still burn on the ground and you can ignore the magic of it if you want to. This is all operating system heavy, programming and sorting out the shit. Getting the fucking job done and i’m afraid its all for me. Selfish isn’t it? But I am a one man support group really.