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| Your heritage creeps up like dusty windowpanes,
occluding that which came before, waging a war against history, a dichotomy
of sense and reason, of since and sinecure, of sign and signet. The rattling of wood paralysis, slow lumberings along the cellular divide between the night and niches filled with amber teardrops, the side in which the taps are placed to siphon spirits for the flood of later days. Stickiness across the eye of hindsight, rent burrs redden reverie, a relegate of raw rebuke, shivering between the lashes of consciousness. It draws one's gaze, to scenes of loss and woe, between which blinks the eye of I, the me of meaning. Returning is a blink, a blink, a blink which echoes uncertainly, as if searching for a way out, united in their flutterings, divided in their hearts, like ample bats uncomfortable in their narrow teeth. September 23, 2002 Forth the swinging bipole reverie that flips and wriggles on the verge of understanding, dipping above and below the threshold of enlightenment, dipping alternately into dread loss and anguish, a bladed seesaw, rectilinear and proud, hoping for a moment on the granite steps of cold anonymity, where those who walk are asleep, and those who sleep, awaken to a vast, depthless night in which all are safely ensconced, like so many berries in a patch, giving nurse to the nightmares beyond time, which wriggle and drool as they feast upon our saline consciousness. March 8, 2002 Open registers in fibrous tenebrity pulse with forgotten shadows as the eye becomes the mote which interferes with our view of the world. To see we must close our eyes and shut out that which the light is showing us, for the light doesn't understand what flits beneath our fingertips, the dazzling uncertainty as we lose our footing and hope, just for a second, that we never land. Psychedelic flotsam roams idly across the span of view as we rub our eyes and step out of the theater, wondering where all the love has gone. March 5, 2002 Potentiality and consequence dance and blend into each other, treading blindly upon neither shore nor sky. The rattling infirmament fumes and perspires, waiting for some deity or another to come along and start making some trouble. A wash of hot, sticky uncertainty strikes the tumult of shaken sanity, droplets of confusion splaying across the thick surface like dark lilies. giving up their acrid perfume as they fold themselves into the liquid chaos, which hardens under each droplet. The winnowing uncertainty sinks beneath the plum-colored murk, coalescing into shadows of fear and hesitation which, barely glimpsed, disappear beneath the surface once more, as the flood of insanity rises, imperceptibly but surely, towards the huddled souls which seek refuge on its shores. the before time Sucking at the fiery teats of woe, the squirming ether rodents riffle as they coalesce out of the smoky maw of dusk, larcenous in their consumption of misery and turquoise cabuchons. Flighty and effluvient, they wail and waw into grains of pickled pumpkin seeds, gnawing as they bleed from the charcoals slipped into their lidless, empty eyes. ...engaging in illicity... Fluorescent scenes, rolling by on rusty tracks, pedalled by a spider crab with an hourglass taped to its carapace, drinking vitreous humour from a mug on which has been embossed "#1 Dad!" |