Is It An Idea?
Why battle the reality of thought, and the imagination it evokes?
We can sit and build. We can stand and build. We can build things that can fall; things that may not have meaning to us. Do we become our parents? Do we become children? I want to be young, when I die.
If we were on hold, we’d want to be let go. If we were released, we’d wonder why.
Sacrifice everything for your art.
The finest entertainment is the entertainment of soul. I feel unsolved, or pillaged. The creator seeks ravage on his glamourous stage set, but why? Why sit, and hurt the mind, the body? Are we not our own planet? Our own nation? Fighting an uncivil war with a pig incarnate? A pig incarnate.
I have no internal sight. My basis for comparison corroded from blows of pride. International rest. Filmmakers, and their unique women, and their unique senses of wit. Bella, bella baby. Bella. I want to be cinema. I want to be the drag of the art. The face of the vision. The flag of the nation.
Solely, the red wine takes care of me, as this year comes and the last one goes. Your red flesh came and went, goes somewhere I will never.
An eclipse clips our lids. We look up, and we find the wonder of mystery. What mystery wonder finds us.
Why sing about a swan, or the turning time, while the time turns, and the swan dies?
God ain’t out there killing in the name of himself. God ain’t out there killing in the name of himself.
Is there some sense of democracy? Do we all do what we do for love simply for the love of it, or has standard demented us all?
Why, love, do you never truly speak to me?
You are as a cloud. You have him pick you up from the tarred ground. You’re so willing to leave your truth behind, behind truth.
No one cares to be loved. They don’t want to be lonely.
Why should my baby speak to me? Why speak?
What if you were not a man? What if you were not a woman? Why must we be?
Your body crawls out of windows. Your fingers weaken. In vain, the lord changes his name for us. And now, every time, we look different in the mirror.
In A Mind
The looming stinks and the looming stinks. Cold kinks of rotted limbs. Fowl stinks of sliming lips. Romance stinks like a bloated fink.
A lurking man, In a suit, and skin the color of sand, blows through our memory like a train. How weak I feel, when I think of this man. When I think of this man, I cannot stand.
The suffered crowd suffered on. The floor disappears. Time is an orchestra of instruments playing alone. I’m a crowd of people on my own.
We’re sitting dreaming of home. I’m home in my head. I’m black in my head. My head is a hole. I’m headless in a hole. My whole head can’t see past the black. We’re sitting in a hole dreaming in black.
What do you want more?
Every morning; Why does my heart break?
I’m just trying.