Tuesday, July 3, 2012

decade old writing

My head feels tight
and I'm angry--cause unknown
when in doubt--pass out.
As you know, being a deep grownup guy with a sensitivity that envelops painfully the global trauma. It is, in those short moments before donning your twin dorsaled wet suit and adding your contribution to the shark infested waters, that offers of spare beds on the other side of the world evoke feelings similar to that of a lone maternal post apocalyptic historys major sifting through a newly rubbled city and finding a still functioning sperm bank with tubes labelled Einstein, Chaplin, Zappa.

Apart from those of us who have to exist via subsistence grain handouts We all exist in a state of dreams, What we are and what the world is, is a collective hallucination brought on by an excess of nutrients. Having realised this I try to sleep as much as possible. Giving meat to the metaphor, sacrificing nothing but the dreams of others.

Spiralling Down
And spiralling up again
Attending to your integrity
As I say this I smile carefully
Its not a sulk Its more a dry resolve
Wetly attended

The fabric of life
Is all dead wood to a writer

The fabric of life
Once stretched by indulgence
Sags embarrassingly in folds
In time of decline

The fabric of life
The loom of ritual
The rewards of startled harmony

The fabric of life
An all purpose garment
Part evening wear, part straitjacket
Part varnished history

The fabric of life/No loom to groove 

The fabric of life/Cast offs rule

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