gypsies.

a band of transient gypsies came running through the city. they carried with them candles, books, and tons of toys. they gave the toys to the children, then candles to the ignorant, and the books to the dreamers. the children took the toys, and walked away to explore their imaginaltions. the dreamers took the books and began to read them eagerly exploring the pages for paths to walk. the last of them, the ignorant took the candles, and held them up to light their ways. the head of the band took his oil and annointed all the lambs that walked on the outskirts of town, and christened them as they walked into town.

a man upon the hill witnessed the scene, and called out to the thriving town.

all is free when all is simple.
the man revelling in the glory of the sweet little scene closed his eyes and nodded his head. he fell asleep in a patch of speckled flowers. the world kept spinning. the man let the sun kiss his skin.

fang

sandpaper tongues.



saliva hangs,
from blanched white fangs,
and drips anticipation for the feast.
weary dogs
spy fattened hogs,
basking in the sun just to the east.

will the pigs sprout their wings and fly into the sky?
will the dogs sprint all-out to the hogs and make sure they all die?

the feast is one of clarity.
he who survives is king.
the wild dogs with diamond teeth,
gather then they sing.

howl to the moon.
howl to the hills.
the pack of fangs stained slightly red
eat til they've had their fill.

we're not too far off.
we're a little alike.
all us humans are dogs.
oh, the pigs have their plight.

they run, bless their little hooves,
but just not fast enough.
the dogs will eat and get their fill,
though the bones may be jagged and rough.

skies overcast but sun peaking through

skyy blue

i contemplate a busy freeway, as the hours rush on by.
i cultivate all my emotion as i watch the clouds float high.
such a serious mess as we sit beneath the freeway,
watching princes and paupers and beggars drive by.
then to stop and take a break, we look towards the sky.
nothing there is moving. nothing there is bleak.
i can feel the motivation as my mind begings to creep.
a blank canvas set before me calling me my name.
a sea of broken velvet before we deal out for the game.
oh sky, i look right through you.
oh sky, how do you do?
oh sky, i'm lost within you.
oh sky, aren't you looking blue?
i watch you every day.
i don't know what to say.
your heart clouds are looking fine.
floating down to pass the time.
a pinprick of rain touches me and makes me sane.
i feel the motivation.
the clouds and the blue sky.
oh sky of motivation,
cover me in blankets when i die.
i feel you watching over me,
as i watch you everyday.
sky, i just want you to see
i love you in every way.

snowflake

philos cntd.

god is the creator, and the repurcussions of existence and being if it's said to be that god created the end in the same six days that god created the begining. it's to say that there are simply six days at the begining of time where god drew in his breath, and created in one fleeting glimpse; the begining, the present, and the end of time. perhaps it's true that he mapped our lives, our exsistence, and everything in the first six days of creation. it's a mysterious thing. just thinking about the thought that god in his creation slated an end of the world. if he did, then why? that's what i was trying to get at.

crab legs

philos


god is assumed by a majority of the world to be the one who created earth, and all that is on it. the god i refer to goes by many names in many religons, but always seems to be credited with the creation of the world. tonight a thought came to me. if god is the origin of creation, then to what extent did he create? is he the origin of everything including past, present, and future? if he is, then it is assmed that god is already knowing of the future, and the path that leads there. is that then to say that god knows how the world ends, and when as well? if that is the case, then there is no such thing as predestination or anything else of that nature. it would then be stated, that in the first six days of exsistence, god created all that is and should ever be. it would then seem that after six days of exsistence, our fate was sealed. was god concious of the creation of the rapture? did god create the rapture, and if so what is the purpose of life here if the creation is alredy slated to end? why even put us here? the purpose remains uncertain.

dancing

oh george, she's dancing!


i know nothing.
that makes me feel i can't sleep.


she's dancing.
dancing with the freedom of a wind.
with the ferocity of a raging stream.
she's dancing.
dancing with the thought of knowing nothing.
she's dancing.



what more to know is there?
she's dancing, god damn it.
and me?
i know nothing.

milan, italy

under siege.


watch the sun set on the silent chosen few
resting on the beach just out of view.
watch the moon rise tonight on a sandy strip
where silent throats are slit
the arrows fly through the sky
we're under siege
please send us help
before they make us bleed
fire will consume us
as we lay down on the beach
whispering of how we almost made it
why wouldn't they just let us be
we lay there on the sands whispering our prayers
the arrows pierced the air
the arrows pierced our layers
the sun set where we lay
and our bodies recieved their burns
consumed to death on a beach
i guess we'll never learn
we lay down under siege
not a weapon to possess
we were helpless for our lives
and we will never rest

demigod fruit festival

begin writ.

someday, there will come a day when all seven factions of the world become plauged by terror. be not afraid on this day, for this is the day where all will be judged. some will be sent to the gallows and others will be shepparded across the divides. each group that is formed will press on through the terror, and though many will make it, only one will thrive. this group is the one that has been graced by the white light and brushed hairs with the flesh of the gods.


end writ.

absent title.

i'm trying to get back into the mindset of posting here. out of laziness and lack of motivation i had posted things elsewhere and lost a lot of what i consider progressive work in my life. from hereforth, plenty more writing will accumulate in these anals of cyberlunacity. ah, what lucid dreams may flow forth. forget not the strange dreams of broken lands. echoes and echoes abundant.

country road; rual route one

country roads and post-apoclaytic smokescapes.

i want to step up through the air to the tops of all the flowers,
and walk my wispy feet across the tops straight through the air.
it's so much cooler and so much better, and i feel so alive.
i pluck the sun from the sky and hold it's passion in my palm,
waiting for some saint to call out that it needs to be put back in its place.
and with the sun sitting steady in a sweaty shaking palm,
the fields feel much freer and the rivers flow so strong.
they twist and turn and break and shake until they're snakes across the deltas.
i take shelter in the mighty oaks that grow so far from here.
i want to step up to the flowers and feel the petals plush under toe.
i want to hold the sun, and snake like rivers.
oh, how my mind will blow!

embedded

ideas for the art show under red reptile sunlamps
ideas for the fall fashionistas


i'm going to put together a neo-postmodern art exhibit.

ideas up for debate and discussion:

get twelve stray cats, and twelve stray dogs, and eleven rats and put them together in an oversized hampster wheel and watch the melee that ensues.

cover the outside of an automobile in cake batter, and then throw it in a huge oven and bake a cake around the car (could possibly sell the decaying pieces of cake to diehard art enthusiasts?).

rent out a room in a gallery, and in the middle place 8*11 sheet of paper with the word, "flashlight" emblazoned in Times New Roman font in the far far bottom right hand corner.

fill an olympic sized swimming pool with enough jello to solidify, and in the mix throw assorted pork products. after churned thoroughly, allow to set. jello shots to be sold at the door, three for three dollars.

get a life-sized replica of a zebra, and paint the stripes purple and yellow. if said zebra includes a faux-tongue, then it shall be replaced with a tube sock. the aformentioned tube sock shall be either red or blue in color of stripe.

dig a hole in the ground, and throw a dually reinforced slab of plexiglass with breathing holes atop the ground. invite a starving artist to live in the hole for a week or two. spectators can pay to harass, bully, feed, or any other action that can produce a reaction within the artist.

dip a pillow in marshmellow fluff and cover with sprinkles. entitle exhibit, "swee dreams".

reproduce life-sized manequin replicas of quasi-celebrities, and place them on poorly-made rollerskates. attach the manequins to a rope that becomes the velvet ropes to a trendy hollywood hotspot for a-list celebs.

sledgehammer the sidewalk outside of city hall, and place lawn-signs that say, "public works, where have you gone?" nearby.

stage a public execution on the lawn of the white house, and plaster the surrounding area with signs and posters reading, "by order of the president a public execution for your viewing pleasure".

summer part i and part ii

summer part i

i am so sick of summer histamines.
my eyes are dry, red, bloodshot pieces of shit.
i feel as if i am strung out on a long monday morning.
i have no one with me to hold late at night either in my mind or in my arms.

the summer histamines keep me short of breath, and force me to puff, puff, pass my trusty albuterol.
ah, the wonderful summer air.
that's to be read as muggy and heavy.
i feel nothing. this is the summer of singed nerve endings.

tear down walls, brick by brick.
expose what summer has become.
it is itchy eyes, popped pills, inhaled highs.
ah, what warm air the summer brings.

and while others lay out to be scorched by the sun,
i pass out on my couch and sleep soundly all week.


summer part ii

we will lay down those memories, so short of a disaster.
they all came in guns a blazing. our hearts were beating faster.
so what? a perfect life seems a little over-rated.
but it's okay, because the sirens serrenaded.
put that whole night on pause and grab a bite to eat.
this summer's going to be another fucking feat.

so where are the memories?
who's going to stop us now?
here's what we're going to do.
live like we don't know how.
here's to the memories.
here's to the skies ablaze.
here's to the endless nights.
here's to the scorching days.

we lay down our blown glass and fall off the window sills.
they laugh at us every night while we look for bigger thrills.
so what? a dull life seems a little understated.
but it's okay, just hit play and we will have made it.
this summer when we chill we'll watch the sunsets fade.
fireflies and broken stars will let us know we got it made.