Sunday 25 January 2009

the bury dairy
not here not ever not really,not entirely. always elsewhere. always sort of on vacation. leaving something of your reality,attending to very regular mundane needs regardless. it's an escape that straddles. this strange place. creative passings. a cycle and a routine. purging and cleansing. escapism. experience.

hasten thru the day with thoughts and thoughts to say. and everyone listens more than you think. a quickening of the light across surfaces,a skin rippling crust, a turn and look at the challenge. yrself. mezmerized by design a delightful lovely wagging obedient tail. sinister elegance drapes a skeletal wand like finger over a pineapple bedpost. and tomorrow a walnut sized amalgam of derelict antiquities spews across the placemat. answers only come to those who what?

awake now. a trail of nonsense demands itself in your face. the efforts of others. acceptance and deep sighs are what honest interest become. a thin sheet of bleary brown film subtly widens in perception, a gaseous familiar warmth envelopes and then recedes. it is that area between caring for someone and caring for the sake of what is good. and then trust sends a tangent grasping for more .

more money. why not address it? it is an abstract notion,is it not? whatis enough? to do what. sit around and think and let individual intentions bleed like this second slip extends amplified sarcasms bouncing of chasm wall in anohter hot and sunny country.

the light hits just right on humankinds creations here. everything has a sense of belong and just the right sugary dollop of importance. charlatans stand by with bait like stench from desire and infants as if apparitions crawl and claw at their ankles. history always young and always so smart informs and deforms itself with memories and writings

and editing. feeling. the king editor. feeling even edits god.

columns covered in dust line the intown pearly streets. the counter ticks off the bodycount at a throwback staggering anthropomorphic rate. like vines,green and hairy mammilian quasi-sentient breathes throbbing. feelings are its pollen, sweating the air up with creative impulses.

the strange delay as it gestates into certain laughable random places. and where does the king of abstract thoughts meet to challenge the king editor?

so now feelings face the editor on main street at high noon.

what do you want? stiffens the vine.

a mass of wailing existence does an amazing bunch of nothing all over the airwaves and a moment passes that is simply alive. it is there as if it never was ,never was forgotten. and right now the air itself is aare.

a vine reports this in a vibratory communicative state,an imitation. of an imitation? a real thingis

a grinning deck of cards thrown in the air cant count em' or read yr expression when looking up and its still hanging there. in mid air. all of them. colorful world of bungee seperated oil slick dangerous banana peel rollerskate water grave. the milk man cometh. summer sank across the day, across the rippling surface and smoothed it out.

a guy interpreted it and shared it for no reason. so now its there.

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