Your like the rising sun. You bring the light. The ecstatic disaster of how you like to partay. The comparison tears apart the apart of the fragments of what we seem to think we believe we are. Mano e mano. I have a counterfeit community to do my deeds and count the scars I cycle through. A fictitious Sid Vicious doing all my dirty dishes, a rare Linda Blair washing my hair, an assumed Judy Blume vacuuming my room, a surreal Ryan O’Neil chopping my pills, a bogus Moses picking me roses, a make believe Christopher Reeve braiding my weave and a foam injected Axl Rose to strike my pose. All in a color that’s hysterical. I’ve seen my palette blown to monochrome and it falls apart to expose the perfect nothing of everything we are. I am going to smash the walls and I don’t even make eye contact. You walk around, you are beautiful, aimless, alive, broken and defined. Summon to the sky. You know it, you love it you got it, you want it, you know it, you love it you got it – a priceless ticket to the grandest opening so when the chariots arrive you better be dressed up and ready to go because its gonna be hot like French toast twisting the pits from the particle turning me up inside you, up and into the heart of your world.
I am forgetting to breathe and the lights are spinning. Etched in stone is so Herculean. Now that’s better than John Galliano getting suspended on the horizon with the medicine man and tweaking out the shit for the motherfuckers. I am not talking about an Armani suit here. All paths lead to nothing, and besides you will inevitably be chased down by wolves and killed. Roads on the other hand are built for speed. Roads are where you unleash control and there are no red lights in sight. It’s like robots fucking-all shattered steele, power cuts, blackouts and scolding liquid metal melting through the ether. Like particles passing through a microcosm, everything adds up to a truth. It is crazy what the lights can do. You never really know what you can’t see. If I were not me, I would hate myself. But I am me, my eyes- +GODSEYES+-are ablaze, the mold is broken, I am in the solar and the moonbeams and supernovas. My fragmented vision is a total one and it encompasses the only one. Everywhere white is what I see. We are after all one and one is all we are and all is the determination to make it make sense in algebra, or a jet stream. We don’t throw coins in wishing wells and we don’t clock watch to get things done. That is a comfort disease in 3D and I have seen enough of nothing news. I’ve got the itch and I feel the sting baby. Gasoline is a culture. We take the wheel and the ROAD and pour gasoline in the danger zone, smoke it and blow the shit up. Revelations become unglued. Now there’s a weapons project for you.
3 comments:
Your like the rising sun. You bring the light. The ecstatic disaster of how you like to partay. The comparison tears apart the apart of the fragments of what we seem to think we believe we are. Mano e mano. I have a counterfeit community to do my deeds and count the scars I cycle through. A fictitious Sid Vicious doing all my dirty dishes, a rare Linda Blair washing my hair, an assumed Judy Blume vacuuming my room, a surreal Ryan O’Neil chopping my pills, a bogus Moses picking me roses, a make believe Christopher Reeve braiding my weave and a foam injected Axl Rose to strike my pose. All in a color that’s hysterical. I’ve seen my palette blown to monochrome and it falls apart to expose the perfect nothing of everything we are. I am going to smash the walls and I don’t even make eye contact. You walk around, you are beautiful, aimless, alive, broken and defined. Summon to the sky. You know it, you love it you got it, you want it, you know it, you love it you got it – a priceless ticket to the grandest opening so when the chariots arrive you better be dressed up and ready to go because its gonna be hot like French toast twisting the pits from the particle turning me up inside you, up and into the heart of your world.
well.
someone was feeling lovely and inspired.
i may just etch this somewhere stone-like as a meditation. and a mediation.
I am forgetting to breathe and the lights are spinning. Etched in stone is so Herculean. Now that’s better than John Galliano getting suspended on the horizon with the medicine man and tweaking out the shit for the motherfuckers. I am not talking about an Armani suit here. All paths lead to nothing, and besides you will inevitably be chased down by wolves and killed. Roads on the other hand are built for speed. Roads are where you unleash control and there are no red lights in sight. It’s like robots fucking-all shattered steele, power cuts, blackouts and scolding liquid metal melting through the ether. Like particles passing through a microcosm, everything adds up to a truth. It is crazy what the lights can do. You never really know what you can’t see. If I were not me, I would hate myself. But I am me, my eyes- +GODSEYES+-are ablaze, the mold is broken, I am in the solar and the moonbeams and supernovas. My fragmented vision is a total one and it encompasses the only one. Everywhere white is what I see. We are after all one and one is all we are and all is the determination to make it make sense in algebra, or a jet stream. We don’t throw coins in wishing wells and we don’t clock watch to get things done. That is a comfort disease in 3D and I have seen enough of nothing news. I’ve got the itch and I feel the sting baby. Gasoline is a culture. We take the wheel and the ROAD and pour gasoline in the danger zone, smoke it and blow the shit up. Revelations become unglued. Now there’s a weapons project for you.
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