Darker Stuff. To the index

Satan again...

So we might be like two rocks grinding together - humanity I mean. Irony swaying its
tail through loves and yearnings, as fallen angels laugh at the composition bubbling on
the heat of the past. The face of culture soaring in the thermal legacy. Curving its great
and grey hand around the scope of the mind. Foresight and longing, fear and repetition
trundle like a shanty town on the edge of ideals, on the edge of the golden white in inside
my sight. Nothing is marginal or outcast, just churned back into the brough. Nothing is
far away its just what it is.

Mystery is framed on the wall like an icon to a divinity in a pure moment. It’s a window
who's frame measures the density of life like a barometer in the weathered story of the
self. Wretched in its self demeaning base. In the protection of its own evil. The culture
is an energy, an orgy, of symbolic, symbiotic and satanic perpetuation. Endlessly bound
and broken lumbering in consciousness fiction, locked in friction on destiny row.
Hurtling its spiral way in vacuous torment into gaping oblivion. On and on till death do
us part. A contract to fumble the art of survival to this living then living again.

I shit, born of spit and fear, grown in the dungeon of my chest.
A culture of criminal weakness appearing in the circus of death.
Goodness withers in the grudge; the spring is silent I trust,
That my end is near just beyond the reach of my piss. ..

Psychedelic Hate...

I hate the washing up,
Still there in the soggy crumb gravy,
Of itself.
The person who left the,
smegma froth drying hard and high,
In the sink.
The bath,
The Balkan, blood bath, basin,
dynamo of hate.
The weather.
Held inside its gray steel box
Or sunny and tormenting outside my strife.
The hierarchy, society,
the patterns of human order.
The medicine clap trap,
A barbed arrow.
The suction of death,
Dreaming of me concluding:
No more joy on Earth !
The shameful burden of pity,
carving darkness into laughter.
The glue and the law of matter.
The "What if ?"
The "Too late !"
The inevitable,
With its trail of good and bad.
The sleepless night I write this.

What I think of as sight is not seeing at all,
But the object of my eye.
Also there is no space;
That quasar I see,
Is sitting right by me.
A thousand years lives just next door.
Glaciers in the palm of my hand,
And a city under a stone.
What I think of mine is not mine at all,
My voice is a dinosaur crowing at the midday sun.
My hands the fins of a seal learning tricks for the circus master.
These words are scree frosted from the slopes we struggle to climb,
My attention, that of a gold fish.
My art that of the fly circling the light.