And johnny comes walking, moving through the park like a slithering snake, passing the greenery with a smile upon his face, dreaming of old but good memories, valuable memories. It is autumn and johnny takes a stroll in hyde park, stops by speaker's corner, is amused by the madmen and poets, see the world they talk about, know into the core of his soul he knows what is here, a fleeting memory passes through his consciousness, a girl in a bathrobe holding forth the cup of christ, asking him if he has any sugar. It happened then, it's happening now again in the meadows of youth, bottled in the past tense.
We know the history of men, we know the stories of our tribes for it's been written down, we know it is true when we ourselves descend and in our piss, blood, sweat and vomit we see the gory stories behind what we learn, what is written, we think it is a part of a bible for this is what they show us when we're pliable and when we're still gullible and our cynicism has not yet manifested, we learn the rose tinted story told to us in fashions we know from the telly, the plots are easy and there is no meat there, there is no substance, there is no marrow in the bones, all has dried up, shrivelling and withering, dying away as we do, burning towards the end because we're too bored with what's inbetween, we want to experience the last word and then hope only for a stillness, a sense of rest in our bones
as we forget everything and we hope emilys fog shrouds everything, we hope we forget as we die with an erection, breathing out what we don't know yet if is man or machine
If it matters. The shadows grow more real for each passing day, the months turn into years and we do what we can to escape the breath of death, we mangle our sense of time and we do what our instincts tell us and we keep occupied, we're running and we've been running for so long. There is no wish to stop, draw a breath and see, watch and reason about every aspect of our reality, we have no desire to truly see what we live, we have no desire to change it or manipulate it other than making it more convenient but we preach the word to the choir for we hope they will back when it matters.
We are thirtyfour, going thirtyfive but still twentytwo in our heads and we realize we're growing old and we feel so sorry for ourselves, we feel every regret washing upon ourselves and we grab our necks and we stuff our heads into the holy grail before we flush, wakening into another layer of a nightmare, continuing to the bar or the dealer by the river, both friendly faces in our crisis, both friends in oblivion. Not a stillness, not rest but oblivion. Blacking out. Waking up to yourself, to these hands which one do menial tasks with every day, watching them work, these hands. What have these hands done behind our back as we were in a drunken haze? What did our hands do when our mind wasn't thinking? Our hands show us the way, our hands tell us that any action, no matter how petty or how small counts more than the history of mankind, counts more than any book ever written and we curse our hands for this knowledge because it means
that we are free and we don't really want to be, there is a freedom singing in our hearts, bound neath a chastity belt, clamped in cold iron, locked away in the memories we never remember when we sit out in the meadows. It's you and a few friends of us and there's a barbecue going on, a chef who's already drunk is roasting a leg of lamb and he passes the bottle of fernet and someone brought brownies and the sun is beautiful in the skin and we the women, the girls walking past remind us that this is it, this is how life should taste, this is the flavour we were designed for, this is where it feels right and it felt right when he took you home and when you woke up you saw into his eyes, smiling and radiating something you had never seen, something you had never felt before ever, something that changed the entirety of the world, something that came to be lost in the heavenly radiance of a dirty pair of sheets, a filthy room reeking of cigarette butts and the tangy smell of pot, here is where it is, here is god filling your every orifice and bathing you in his light and for the first time since you can remember
you ascend and you are given and you remember your hands, you remember the bees, you see what it was all built upon. You see these hands and they climb mount ararat. We do not see this with you, we are not heavenly ascended like you are, we have been and will be, we will sit by his throne and we will see what you saw. We didn't see it because it was blocked by a pair of sunglasses and a splitting headache and all we read those days were the books of should
We go out in the hailstorms, we go out in the fire, we set it alight, we set it in motion as our feet grow heavier for each stone we pass, every memory flooding us now in the rain as it splashes on our glasses, we left the rose for the brown and we want to look like rockstars on coke because that's what we feel represent us best. We wanna be everything, we wanna be nothing, we want the false soft words to be spoken as you stroke our hair and we creep up into you and bathe in your skin, the safety of your radiance, the heavenly sensation which grips us
again
I make shiny color theory thingy for yuo
(http://img252.imageshack.us/img252/9607/74391480.png)
Rent day.
PonyHenge.
(http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e209/kasdeja1/ponyhenge-1.gif)
The responses to this OP confuse me. :?
Quote from: Nasturtiums on December 05, 2009, 05:26:44 AM
The responses to this OP confuse me. :?
Some call it the highest ascended state in discordianism.