The following exert was discovered in a red book that seemed to have been purchased for the purpose. These are the words found in it. It was accompanied by a till receipt for 'A Pilgrims Song' by Dearmer, G upon the back of which was scrawled the following epithet:
'The purpose and dedication of a man's life can make itself clear when faced with the prospect of marriage.'
This is a depressing thought
That I will not be quietened till I discover the meaning of life......
The magnitude of the soul
To understand and accept destiny
to believe in destiny; fate; faith all spring
from fundamental believe
my disquietitude is of this
my fundamental belief
I ask myself what is true
but I only question the truth
- in the end
I am fundamentally unsure
that the meaning of life is in the surety
I have been convinced by academic argument
I am convinced everytime
those I refine and use again - forsaking old stances
mutating in vogue
till I am reconvinced
Only pain is real; elation is the misery of the sweet chord
the primordial elusive riff
it fails in repetition and pales in imitation
Dope exemplifies
my droop eyes
fear of a direct gaze
IF I DO NOT KNOW MY OWN SOULWHY SHOULD I FEAR JUDGMENT
A disgrace to my consciousness
unable to actually THINK about anything
not Ostrich way
try - say consider this
I blank - I fraid
see this artifice
vulnerability
a 1/2 inch between beasts
forget the psychotic killer; the inconsequential godhead
the ripper pales
it is the mob that murders
I am brimming
but brine;
liquidless - my conscious mind
I am not conscious of
my tongue
not confused, not......
just numb
with an increase of visual acuity
see
that's
me
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
A Moon Cut Like A Sickle
Freud and the Officious Fool
As a clown, I offered her a bowl of cherries,
not flat (like a mirror) or a painted smile portrayed.
She put on her glasses and perused what I’d given her.
What a laugh she gave - incisor, not inside her,
It would never be inside her.
The bowl’s glazed age, hard hairline and fractured,
made such a withered vessel, a rotten bough, petaless - but the fruit, ah!
She ate them all, all, sweet tempting Eve
as I watched salivating, keen and dog-eyed.
She ate them all, all and licked her lips,
savouring the saviour, and the juice on her fingertips.
She ate them all, all and sucked the flesh from the bones,then chewed the marrow and spat out the stones -they cracked at the bowl, bare and wet.
She ate them all, all, as I watched her
and hungered, a half handsome xylophone me.
She returned the bowl a skeletal wreck,
With a painted satiate smile,
Then dismissed me, clowned me, that Marie Celeste.
A jape, a jaded sweating mask am I,
She a liquid fairy, who cuts the grease-paint squeak:
And washed her hands of me.
No Fides she , the all,
Drunk from the grail so empty.
I will pass my hand through her,
And taste the space of her form,
the very atom of her being.
My hand for eons in her ions,
and grasp her frigid nucleus,
take the jolt, the essence of her Gaia,
and tear it out.
Leave her a negative, a nothing,
electric and dead;
Like a dog, this sentience I possess, is nothing.
As a clown, I offered her a bowl of cherries,
not flat (like a mirror) or a painted smile portrayed.
She put on her glasses and perused what I’d given her.
What a laugh she gave - incisor, not inside her,
It would never be inside her.
The bowl’s glazed age, hard hairline and fractured,
made such a withered vessel, a rotten bough, petaless - but the fruit, ah!
She ate them all, all, sweet tempting Eve
as I watched salivating, keen and dog-eyed.
She ate them all, all and licked her lips,
savouring the saviour, and the juice on her fingertips.
She ate them all, all and sucked the flesh from the bones,then chewed the marrow and spat out the stones -they cracked at the bowl, bare and wet.
She ate them all, all, as I watched her
and hungered, a half handsome xylophone me.
She returned the bowl a skeletal wreck,
With a painted satiate smile,
Then dismissed me, clowned me, that Marie Celeste.
A jape, a jaded sweating mask am I,
She a liquid fairy, who cuts the grease-paint squeak:
And washed her hands of me.
No Fides she , the all,
Drunk from the grail so empty.
I will pass my hand through her,
And taste the space of her form,
the very atom of her being.
My hand for eons in her ions,
and grasp her frigid nucleus,
take the jolt, the essence of her Gaia,
and tear it out.
Leave her a negative, a nothing,
electric and dead;
Like a dog, this sentience I possess, is nothing.
Where is he going?
Where is he going
To die
To meet his destiny
His Armageddon
His image
His medusa
His valhala
His golden moment
His virility
His last stand
His final wish
The epitome of his reading
His holy place
His nobility
His fulfillness
His satori
The product of enlightenment
The knowing crust
The X, the christening
The moment of self love
Peace and confidence
Rest in mind
But filled with such afloatness
That all is just a sucked in expansion
It is the meaning of the spirit
And its moment
Its one action, rebellion or noblesse
A transendation
That carves a mark
A graffiti
In its brightness to know life.
To die
To meet his destiny
His Armageddon
His image
His medusa
His valhala
His golden moment
His virility
His last stand
His final wish
The epitome of his reading
His holy place
His nobility
His fulfillness
His satori
The product of enlightenment
The knowing crust
The X, the christening
The moment of self love
Peace and confidence
Rest in mind
But filled with such afloatness
That all is just a sucked in expansion
It is the meaning of the spirit
And its moment
Its one action, rebellion or noblesse
A transendation
That carves a mark
A graffiti
In its brightness to know life.
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