Harlequin

Draw the awe and swivel from the undertones. ardour is the device to ascertain the unreliable, dread the undeserved. come to the parallax scheme and smile at your dissidence. love that gourd, that challis, that cup. and feel the sand coming away. Does it always feel like this? true to word, dye that sheath and see whats that to come. fangs and claws we come out crying. flying lying. dying. deriving the rocks from the jewels while we confuse our mouths for our feet. we lie on our backs and watch the stream dry. living in existence- where we grab and grasp that supposed inheritance. where does it all end. in prose, where we see those pro's and con's and con's becomes what we all uphold. deduce the truth and open your mind's eye.

preach that sermon and cast out those lines
and see whats the day's catch.

Didn't you know that the world dances on harlequin floors.
Indulgent in that paradigm shift

Starstruck.

Apparently the stars we look to are the physical manifestation of the past. So that when ever we look up into the stars -- it is as if the immediate future (us) is directly interacting with the past. hence the past and the future existing in one moment. with that, i wonder-- how can it not but render our meanings of what is the past, and what is the future-- rendering words and its meanings- ultimately useless. if that were true, then the past is not really the past, and the present not the present-- then is the only thing definite, the future? But even then, the future is not given...

The Number Juice.

A garrish display, finite till the end. Still left in the stillness of things undone-what then will become of us all. filters and delinquent cove, what right do we have? Estranged in unraveling demeanor, how can we not but blame ourselves? Do that dance, and lift that drink. preening feathers as we go. tight lipped till the end, who could but guess our names. Start your engines and race to the abyss where excess take new meaning.