Three trains/thoughts/tinker

[Sepia]

There is no diction, no struggle, not in any traditional sense, there is just the cat and the box, there is only a word. At a crossroads do we meet for the first time and since, we've only kept on meeting here, there, as old friends or more aptly, old enemies. There is no need for love to understand but we shared that too, you reminded me of Walt Whitman and you made me feel the multitudes instead of the anxieties of dissonance. We walked for a while at each crossroad, you and me and we were linked, somewhere, six fathoms deep, an old anchor suffering of entropy under the white dunes of the black ocean and once-tugging us further away the drift towards shore for seven hundred and seventy seven men, women and children, purchased for baubles, protected by the divine creator as slaves.
I always imagined the images that came when we spoke to be yours, I saw you as someone struggling with all of the senses/disciplines, mine one was merely the word and in trying to understand the word I tried to be the word before I realized that there is nothing more, there might have been a word at first but every hope and yearn we crave for something different than a planet filled with bad animals, some external presence to tell us that thing we've felt all life is just this

I abused you, called you names and wished you would never exist, I threatened you and I courted you, I did everything I could think of that would make you break the way I wanted you to but you took it all, every big cock in every orifice, we filled you to the brim and we tried to poison you, I tried to poison you, to turn you more like me but I think you knew it was childish folly for if you became like me, we  would no longer exist, we would no longer have a reason to exist so we would cease. When you acted indifferently to both my hate and love, I did the most sensible thing ignoring and denying you but when you weren't there I felt no peace, no sleep but I did not know it at the time, others came and made me feel good but the instances became instants  and there was a hole

Stranger- I'm a stranger here myself, on an old worn down bench in a cemetary two men sit, appearing as collages of their lives, they themselves long since dead, the writer and musician sit amongst the dead talking of life and we came upon their crossroads once and they talked of change, the idea is the most powerful


"You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:
you made the horned god your own:
You stood behind him on his throne: you called
him by his secret name." - Oscar Wilde, the Sphinx

That terrible crucifix to wear, silver to protect us against vampires and werewolves and the cross to remind us of who died for our sins unless its a fashion statement- a rememberance of the torture and its probably been done before but not worldwide, I feel old talking about respect atleast for an incident that spawned some of the most malicious organizations and systems, despicable and vile monster trucks headed down that broad broad road, paved with  gold, talking in newspeak with leonard cohens voice as we tread it but it doesnt feel solid, it gives, like water encapsulated, a membrane a cell something alive and in a sense aware but not sentient or the other way around but its been here before, we've been here before, we've seen this road from far away, we've taken it a couple of times and we have fought those who have taken it at other times and we are the history of these two roads for those who know the third road

take the third road and as they pass the veil, their hearts cheer and everything resonates like a cataclysmic apocalypse of the mind, 2001 played again, played backwards and inside, outside, bubble-shaped, kaleidoscopic

The third road is the hole in my heart, you did the sensible thing and didn't wait, you came with godsight and you saw where it was headed and I could not see it but what you saw I understood as you passed behind the veil and your eyes were no longer mortal but I saw you as you passed and writing of you makes it like you're dead and in a sense you are because there needs to be an end/beginning sequence but death itself is so passé in a world where we will all survive as gifs and swfs, reblogged more often as the world gets interpreted through Moore's Law

There's pressure, there will always be pressure. It doesn't have to make sense, none of it, it just has to appeal, remove language from the equation of reality and pass into the halls of enlightenment for words as they say up north, is wind and listen to the wind and look for the warmth underneath the fallen city, what undying god toils there? What does sense give you that you couldn't get before, what horrors are chained in the basement of your soul all because of restriction, the walls should curve, heart should stop racing and the brain should regain control from the blood and the you, with sense or without, pressure. Points produced from the tiniest of pinpricks, building the Invisibles from the rubble of bill&ted, in battery-life none can hear you whoa dude, in damnation to dormancy dwell, this is a lesson but none to be learned, wisdom travels in a discreet fashion, like a virus, like an idea but time is biding like the true god we all know, dormant- shots are fired on the outside, the echoes are heard from the walls, from the backs of our trolls, through the echoes of our waterfront in progress, telling the sad tale of yuppie-norway come 2010, although the opera is more beautiful now and when it turns into detroit and robocop walks the streets, it will look pretty cool so that's something, this is a lesson, there is nothing to be learned, this is reason and treason nestled together like two young gay men under spring break, turn the valve, release it, smoke weed and listen to quas or drink beer and watch a game but release it and transcend where you sit, be reborn in this heavy world, so filled with kipple and dross, teary eyes lost in the rain and something, calling, becoming, you

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Well, you're a sight for sore eyes...where have you been?

[Sepia]

Making soups and fileting fish. Busy days in the galley, how are things here?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Making soups and fileting fish. Busy days in the galley, how are things here?

Same old shit.  Some good new writing, same old brawls.

[LMNO]

Son of someone else's cock, I love that you still post here.