Thirty thousand feet above the ground.
Closer to the stars.
Multidimensional galaxies, and string theories have been expanded on your tainted palms, and your
Muted guitar.
Gathering signage, illuminating image in rage.
Sending smoke signal every mili-second to your Scottish tongue, and renaissance eyes.
Receivers are still demanding failures, and trophies.
Warm light, cold night.
Zero degrees outside, and we're still gazing at our evening star
Lost in a deteriorating syllables,
My pressed eyes are the trigonometry symbols of geometrical forms of illusion.
Tangled up in a centrifugal force.
I forgot to let myself down.
Butterfly wings,
(Cover your eyes)
Angels
(Aim the trigger to the blooming spring)
Green intoxicated heart
(Breathe in, breathe out)
Skulls
(Why are we here?)
Horizontal street, three degrees sunrise.
Don't look back in disgrace.
I'm not afraid to lose this one.
I will see you again tomorrow.
Red light:
Blown out hair, cigarette in one hand, musical gimmick in the left.
Johnny Cash in her lips; you're my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Serenading each windowsill, batting lashes, faking whistles.
11 PM:
Hiding faces, exposing traces.
(Silk gown, blood red roses in her hair).
Persuading laces, flickering spaces.
(Blood on her skin, sweet and fair).
Morning:
The sea is always streaming in sapphire, and the sky is always burning in cerulean.
Her eyes are always in tears, weeping in the middle of cosmopolitan.
Nothing to lose. Still a lone freudian.
Good morning is a marketing strategy of fabricated reality, and nucleon.
I’ve never been this pissed, and disappointed before. Everything seems to go irrationally from here, and my retinal disparity seems to be blurred in some static fucked up figure of a mental statuesque landscape. Double visions, binocular sunset. It’s like they simply put me upside down in a tank full of nonsense, and whimsical gravity. I tried to runaway, and they just pulled me back in. They call themselves as the brightest lantern of all, the immaculate source of hope, and legacy. Tell my man about that, he’ll laugh his ass off. He is as riotous as myself. He’s not just another punk rock lad with manner issues. Never felt love, never felt hate. We are completely numb to these crappy bollocks. Pedal to the metal. Can’t stress that one enough. Life is a nonstop heavy metal riffs from Iron Maiden. No, it’s heavier than heaven.
Is the world really underwater? Or was it just a dream that I got while trying out Sigmund Freud-ish technique that Salvador did? Maybe it was really underwater, and everything dried up as soon as I opened my eyes to smell. Or to see? It doesn’t matter. All I can think about is how to go to New York, and pick him up from his flat, and off we go to the sunset. Why not vice versa? Because that’s how we always roll. Dead Kennedys in the morning, and Misfits in the night. Mommy, mommy, mommy. let me out and kill some people tonight.
She keeps on rambling, and rambling, and rambling. Prettiest girl in the world. She’s the epitome of Marilyn Monroe of 2013. Gosh, please tell me that you don’t envy her beauty. What? No. You’re lying. You’re a lying bitch. St. Patrick’s Day, huh? What’s your excuse? Dress your feast up, party on. Bury me in my leather jacket like they did to Sid. He was too Vicious, and I’m very curious. Turn on the volume, I see that you’re listening to Gojira. Heavy heavy, their songs are my chill pill. If Plato was right, the current idea world can only be found in Joe Satriani’s guitar solos. Nothing is better than listening to a crisp shred, and your boyfriend laughing twelve hours away.
Leo Tolstoy was always right about everything. “We can know only that we know nothing”. Yes, Leo. Nobody knows what we know, right? Because we know nothing. Every single thing that we knew was literally nonsense, not really, but they’re quite invisible. Invincible. Sheer plasmatic cell of knowledge waiting to be stored in the pineal glands. Where is Stephen Hawking when I need him? Let me dig the truth from Gadamer’s book. Thank you, classmate for lending me this bible. I’m starting to worship the guy, and build an altar especially for him, but wait, he’s no Salvador. But still.
10:10 wish upon a star? Nope. Wrong answer. Newsletter is waiting to be done, and some paintings are dying to be coloured. And I dwell in probabilities, and posibilities, and maybe some chi squared test. This is purely for artistic, and mathematical purpose. The concentration of my oil paint is getting thinner as the night grows darker. Maybe I should stop here, and breathe, and put on GnR’s Patience as I paint through the night. Calling all the muses to line up, and fill my surrealist block here.
We are all bored.
All was created out of the night We're all born from the burst of a star
6 PM is the dying hour of the sun.
He dimmed the sparks of his warmth to glow the moon.
6 PM is the skipping beat of the natural pulse.
They stop to burn for a while, and let the carbon flees the empty air.
6 PM is the endless talk, and the falling rain.
Hear me sighing in the arms of the dusk.
6 PM is not for the wandering souls.
They mourn their fate under the joyful hymn of the angels.
Out of the window, out of the vision of tomorrow.
Her smiles, grieving through my morning sorrow.
Blurred out paintings waiting to be borrowed, to be stolen from my rectum, and glow.
(Angels are still singing the anthem, endlessly)
Two steps away from the flowing hair, my last despair.
She might not be that fair as she climbed up the sculpted stair.
Swirling brushes in bare, choking in the midnight air.
(Angels are still whispering the hymn, painfully)
He is the white feather in the clouds, falling down like buds.
This is the end, son. Tear off your studs.
The wind is too loud, release me from the crowd.
(Angels are wiping the tears, eternally)
-------
Note: inspired by a short story snippet by Kak Joe.
Cadillac eyelids
Dear, with your pale blue iris
Sunset illusion, sunrise delusion
Struck a bolt in my bourdoir
I listen to your cherry pie lies
Head punch, and mistakes
I am not more than a shadow in the dark
A surreal gravity spark
I split skulls, and swallow neutrons
Zero clues of where I belong
We have no idea which river streams the right song
Sailed in shangri-la
Imitating pebbles in the lake
Static motion
Flowing upwards to the angry clouds
I'll wash the pain, you'll steal the pouts
Long roads to hell
Will we ever come back?
Are we there by now?
And the ocean was made of lazuli.
Immaculate blue, anticipated home of the lost souls.
Spells in your palms, hexes in my tongue:
Ποσειδῶν, behold, behold.
The unseen force from beneath the core.
Landlord of the perished ones.
Your poetic mouth, and healing hands are the key to the solemnity of her black winter.
Πλούτωνος, gathering golden coils and haywires from the streets of deserted woods.
Be quiet.
Ἀΐδας, destroy, destroy.
I long for a Mediterranean summer, and flaming wheels.
Not a single drop of tears.
My clymenus thoughts are still drifting with your eubuleus minds.
The butterfly on your wrist is slowly departing to south.
Charon, take my obolus as you sail the empty flows.
And let me be your last mnemosyne.
