Shit Listener Wizard Finder

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“you have to take in a little to take it out”

In the valley they press the circles into you with whispers while you hover between sleep and pre-sleep but that’s ok. I mean what’s the point of coming here if it isn’t for answers? The pressing makes you a little sick and the rustling of their Mildew coated rough woolen robes tends to knock you awake again just when you think that dirty finger they point at you will give some answer to the questions.

You think they would speak some form of language but that’s not the case. They have already said everything you needed to know if you even bothered to listen, or even knew of them at all. The Grateful Dead offered a few choice words so did David Frost, so did Carl Jung effortless was his delivery of course. So they cajole the half asleep with riddles knowing the answers are not theirs to give, they are ours always. You have lost your lighter again, but it was deep in your pockets all along.

Forgotten, bodies flung under the pillow mounds with the Rabbits. A clue showed to you by Grace Slick and Robert Anton Wilson. The three Grey Wizards sit and converse and have done for uncounted years…

Rydym yn eistedd ac yn lash ein geiriau at ei gilydd ar gyfer cryfder a cheisio hedfan geiriau hyn i chi gysgu cuddio eich pen i ffwrdd oddi wrth y cyffyrddiadau o ysbrydion a gwirodydd sydd wedi plagued chi ers i chi fod yn blentyn. Rydym yn anfon y lluniau rydych yn tynnu a’r cerddi fyddwch yn ysgrifennu ac eto yr ydych ….

The Apple tree on the hill is open
like gates to heaven itself
but the higher you climb the mountain…

Edges

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singing and taking the thing the music where nobody else sins
for the avalons and shrieking needles the lesser known shit to face
nobody sins nobody can even feel the fingers to grab a hand
and the grip of a Cop arrest is a fleeting fucking thing
a sweeter end a fucking better song to sing
the symbols on the floor. Liar chair. An end and a slitted cloth
a finders fee and an emotional bitter snotted cry out
again the legs fail to get up from the pavement edge
the sitter sits and starts to beg. but can’t get up again
stretched out hand. today wrong maybe again
we can’t get around. we can’t sprint to be alive
hymns we sing and scrabble between the mortar. slicker ends
songs for ends, for sweated bars. for lost skin
whatever. the perfect match the finger wide crack
the singers wrings and fettled things anchor chains
twenty feet under and the surface drags, we know and shatter the edge
we know you fucking lie to the ends. to sit at edges and fucking sing
thoughtless oxygen starved we choke and lie for movement for edges
dresses cling and still we would make a tighter clasp. beg and plead
ease the way in and aim to please. to offer nothing and inbetween
sing at edges. beg and preen. ask give and throw the bribes away
task the taskmaster in between the edge again. but the rain falls
and the mist gets thicker. hold your head don’t get bitter
for her life is shit and she says enough. life at school is tough
the golden seas of happiness leak out. breathe deeper don’t ask or shout
the edges thicker the life bred deep and what coils of sense fall out
ask and receive bury your face within the soft forgiving floor
rooted and fleshed damp skin and endless green the fire is out
the mask slips and names mean anything for idols lashed to ships never sink
657 liars masks as you scratch acoustic sounds to walls that never listen
and he wishes he could make the day last but it always cries and dies
try to keep her there but edge the day. forgive. let the edges sort themselves