Something’s
recording; this cache of images; they appear without warnings. We rave over new
beginnings, as to plummet an old person—(the closer we get, the braver the
cinema). Something’s nudging, poking and prodding, while to earshot a sentence;
at once, we notice a root, (something seeming innocuous). We seek a burg, some
type of fortress, if but to divest a feeling: loud music; some type of demon;
even a cuddling arm; (while to settle indifferences). We’re rapt in ‘ologies,
this mental media, attempting the greatest lives of ourselves; trekking unpaved
terrain, soon becoming familiar, with something chaotic; (this casual trauma).
It becomes a force, this reservoir of wisdom, this internal relic: to picture
knells, ringing rapidly, as to sudden a triumph: round in circles, as passion-chaos,
standing at the wharf of brains—peering at insanity, as found as artifacts,
(that something looming); this pendulum, dangling by clocks—this balloon
struggling—to see a city, void of chaos, to show genuine affection; that lack
of motives, albeit, dormant, or more a stupor of actions; this fatal
affliction, as needing to appease, if but a crooked comfort. The brain is
filming, lost in repression, a grown man feeling unsteady; or rather a woman,
as sophisticated brightly, to sudden upon a childhood father. Its gothic this
storm, appreciating ideals, (those tenets that come with lose); that obvious
scar, as paraded normalcy, where education runs from churches: this space of
tombs, while wrested inside, fettled by yoga: this patrolling brain; that place
of materials; those woodlands as but a frontier; to mock an image, while to
feel for guilty, for, too, the foolish shepherd suffers; while cornered in
brains, that image of times, those seconds family was unkind. It’s the grave for
living; the soul for starving; our eyes and ears at straits to feel more; but
life is segments, even in colors, only so much registers; where water is
living, as chased by souls, (even that something). We form stratagems, those types of koans,
this hearth of combats; if but to continue, flowing through this life,
attending to a parade of activities; where days are fluxed, at once, this inner
investigation—to sleep analysis, a three a.m. peach, while pacing the
vestibule: this jotting of notes, those tiresome eyes, that lethargic approach
to bed; to notice a nuance, this room of windows, that mental furnace; to need
for rest, this flowery appearance, (as so simple that light); in which, are
souls, even mental swamps, sudden to read an image.
