its the silents that get(s) me..
gets to me thats is.
its not quite silence,
its all those, silent minds;
that die unspoken;
their only friend is Echo.
that has a ready
a steadier hear
has never found its ear-
nor its rest.
but the echos
seeing my self. reflected in smoke...
coals: black but still aglow.
to the village set he
his mind against its grain
and burning thus
he turned away,
can't light his face.
from light he turns
and turns again,
to the void he speaks his name.
and who is there to meet him,
this man who hides his well?
the stars alone can greet him,
in deep stillness, see themselves.
underneath the atrium
she empties her box
contents strewn in the corridor
hiding behind a column
as my ghost wanders
the collateral damages
of invisible demons
long since left
unaware of their inheritance
a lone rubber boot
the only proof of life
lines echoing stairwells
my voice calls to me
across the twisting heights
yet one last demon comes to her
taunting. a reminder of her own
knife placed deftly in
where it still resides
when i awake this dream
the demon king
has already transported us to
dungeon door unlocked
nude descending staircase
comes full round
to meet her naked
face in mirror
the past lies beyond
ridden that backwords
world, with causalities
red earth modulated, baked on stacked
from the dust came I.
from dust to dust i stand
brought and wrought by human hand.
then tectonic wall.
spanned and capped with tar.
the planar terrestry
was never enough.
we wanted the stars.
a tower we built.
elevate the temporal corporality
if not the atemporal conscious.
from coop corp.
communal freedom dies
killed by collective unconscious.
the currency of the free world:
is not what we have bought but with which we buy.
and when our capital is spent,
why, we must buy it back of course.
they say nothing comes without a cost.
i say nothing comes at a cost, which is what we get
at market value.
when love is lost and never found
when love was never known
homogeneity cloistered and common
le modular. unique in it's separateness,
the illusion of the familiar. all lines bleed into one.
there is no weight, no density, no differentiation
only differential settlement, I am.
i will settle no more. climb out of this hole
I will. a hole surround. a fortress of internality.
not to withstand from without. the deep dark well
is not deep
not dark enough. a hole in the sky, anchored to the earth.
its not up but out, not down but in. sucked into the bounds
of topography, we wash ashore, ebb and flow with wax and wane.
i remember situations in which i had no consciousness. a prisoner in time and space. i don't want to talk to the imbeciles. they are blind. they see only forms, shadows projected upon the back wall of the eye. their hearts reverberate without resounding. the echo is lost, she calls on blind ears. deaf eyes. they know no moments, endless cascades of time wash over them like sea foam beating them senseless against a senseless floor. even the rock responds to water, and the tree it bends for air. invisible things before our face. we are amiss.
we spin to face the sun. the air becomes visible in twilight. when minds of men are sleeping. they forget the transposition and call upon star to rise and fall, they are spectators in a tiny arena. a new day dawns without shedding light on the world. darkness surrounds us, penetrates us. I feel it, but our eyes have become accustomed to it, and yet we feel the surface like in the womb, never born, tied to tradition, inertia moves us forward.
i am placeless, nameless, until you name me, you call me arbitrarily, and i do not respond, for you do not know me. where you should see only your reflection, it is in fact your image which stares right through you, for you are hollow, inert, a ghost without memory or place. nothing moves itself, and yet you move...what moves you? only gravity, which pulls you ever closer to death. you can never hope for a finish, and yet you have never hoped. you forget an ending is eminent, yet your have never begun. if you are lucky, you won't see it until it is too late. but most likely you will never see it at all. so build your walls, that you might occupy them, place your coffin in waiting, and dwell.
my life haunts my dreams
which become ever the more real to me.
which is the more real?
brown stone black stone
living skin covers bleach-ed bone.
i redress myself
let sleepless days pass silently
till construction reveals itself in form.
the waking mind in unconsciousness.
wordless to the world. i am sleeper.