24 Apr 2008

Numbers to bridges

cleverly fractured arguments form ideas among the surgeon: As value disappears, perhaps lingering too close for being owned as the weather. Clouds grace my drink. For the first time in the day I consider my carbon output then decide to sit down next to the window, for better view of th concrete. In turn, I inhale a better world. But find myself swimming against the current of the room. The air is 85% nonchalance. If I was to die now, conforming to a cycle, my energy would feed contradiction. Her voice echoes ever haunting my every crossword puzzle. Consonants form my stance against- celebrities. Constant sex. My every Ecstasy carefully placed on turntables without the middle. A somewhat warped stereotype; that I reach her facing East. Numbers pilled against worship ignoring space in order to reach conclusion. Intrusive ideas invade us like video games with more meaning. Collect pieces of fracture among the deformed ideals_Mutated sense survived the collision, all we owed left.

Consider the machination of his flesh; intense:how it coincides. Collisions against him and her existence; as leverage: Polarized:: Making etiquette a quiet distance. An acquired ordeal, is justice. All else files. An imagination pointing west; suggestive of profits with excess fat into opposite sex: Ideally_I do all the talking. Idle: I delete all fifths. Intense, as the machination of his flesh. How it collides is against all. Which (is) her. Existence. As covered, firstly.

Signatures revolve around appliance/Ink as applied/ appropriately fenced in orbit. Perhaps this, my next freight_ Distracted by the baby_ Exploited sense of remembrance. All else follows through the shaped sound of stained renditions like the third option: spoken from the point of view sharp enough to take a stab in the dark and draw blood from his hidden agenda. Like clockwork. Global laps around hunger, with bleach as incentive, we are all invited. Including terror from beyond the decimal in the scope. The disassociate behind a name comes clean as easy as soap. Stumbled upon a burial ground as though dowsing with practiced instruments. we play the souls of the dead. Building railroads through the forgotten trespasses of our purpose. Transposed against indigo, a glowing field, burnt by my best wishes to survive. this I've collected as a dance absorbed by my flesh mirrored in the path of teardrops. She catches. I'm thrown out of orbit, by degrees that couldn't raise the situation above temporal. In in stitches. Side stepped chords from tunes hummed to provide hope from despair. When the voice of God invades you and rapes your dreams past death. When Buddha is in the way. All else follows, or, numbers to bridges. Clouds to coal.

I might Just. If I could only--ask.
Imagine this space as us.
All else follows. All else flows in no logical fashion. My dreams react as shrapnel in the garbage of nothing - timed against the machinations I was born to strip into. Begging. Begging. Begging. Ignore the change they refuse to throw and collect the souls in their strides. Yes, we walk badly. Twice malfunctioned as a process before noon. Still searching for a more appropriate fracture to warn the doctor.


TICTAC said...

Prases that take me from an image to another..so many i like.

beautiful, jaie!

Robert said...

yeah, this had a beatnick flow with surrealist imagery

kudos, sir J!!

cocaine jesus said...

you have an amazing ability with words. like a fly in amber i get caught everytime.