Reservoir page 9

So it is of little form the soul transcribed by limb to font with little thought and foolish woe we cast forth whims to place in form what ought not be. This chamber of fools lingering in search of absolution riding out the monotonous in a halfwits guise of cool. Slumber is retreatism, ignorance is retreatism, every act retreatism, all emotion is retreatism and yet extinguished remains the flame that demands existence. And yet here we are but hallow actors bent with lips to knee and head to hand in honored trust we humbly give and take the world does its lot. I would if I had but one ounce of merit dance upon the widow maker and bellow at the butchers cry before the slaughter of a lamb. Laughing hysterics garner little profit from the mad and living out side societal norms demands retribution. Blood for kin or blood for sin, blood to rue whats right and damn a twilight yet to bring back normalcy to this ruin deemed life.

Aye my brother you see not by the clarity of the goddess yet what chance has though raised by pigs and thrust from the womb by a collared fool. Left in your cackiling was the world and you claimed your feelings meant a great deal yet still the monarchy is gone, your worth forfit, your claim no more legit than that of a popper. If ever naivity spawned you my dear would be no more than a babe at its tit, nay you'd be the decay spewed fourth at end of day from its bowels. Ready tomorrow for you have spent days in the shadows of others, ready for when you stand and no longer head the words of tyrants, Ignorance is thy comfort and cling to it you must, should you find truth in fiction then dream a bit longer till life be snuffed from flesh and wrung upon the cliffs of thy own bastardly sin.

friend, brother a little kindness please. I am but in shambles and you my strength cast me to the whim. I have no penance should wrong you have I, do not sacrifice my heart when in your hands it is, strike me down and as a wounded mongrel i will lick thy heel. You are my hope, that which I have sought and yet still seek, all that Ive earned was yours and yet you condemn me with such distrust, Casting stones at heaven you break the wings of angels and tempt damnation yet still I follow you, I breath in your air to know of life and cause for living.

Whimpering baboon, soft hearted wretch, contempt is all that can be raised when looking upon your riddled frame. Your treason demands execution but the dullness of my blade is far too great an honor for so lowly a dog. go forth and sow your youth with harlots and beggards, dwindle your coin in mirth and sully your flesh with your kind. Know that we never knew one another, know that the past is nothing more than a reality you shant recall, commit to this and spare your life, yet speak again and taste oblivion.

A dabble at thought

Normalcy is the instrument of late striking such chords that dull the very minutes etched into a day. Motivation lacking seconds create days and accomplishments dissolve leaving little to materialize. Existence forever beckoning and yet life so finite.

How are you is but a phrase others welcome yet only simple gestures assist in making puppets continue with their days. Honesty is not what our world longs for as my glass overflows with meaningless dribble a shadow is borne from each encounter.

I've stood before you and never been myself. I've spoken the words and never truly felt. The renditions have been played and new actors take our stage smoking scenes as dead skin peels away.

The dance macabre ode to another vampiric day draining life from life and once we are no more I can honestly say none of this mattered.

so expectant of the illusion I am that I mourn its absense. I cling to it as the final chord of symphony or some childs mimicry of a musician and yet no sound is heard by the human ear. So many times I have come to this desolate place and want to withdraw myself from all the world. Why do we loose ourselves to these moments and why does my mind fill me with such doubt? Questions have answers but I remain with riddles upon my nerves; an unsettled spirit lingering between worlds and hoping, always hopeful and yet so damned beneath the surface a borne contempt for all mankind lingers, festering and always seeking an outlet.

My harmony is betrayed by stupidity for I play the puppets part and walk into natural blunders and forget mine enemies linger everywhere. Paranoid one would say lest truth remain and if truth remain does this make my actions worthy, for what has worth in this struggle? Long after death I will be no more than a rememberence for the living, those that shared a few pleasurable moments will dance me upon their thoughts as some flicker of candle light but even such is lost when the wax of time courses downward, spiraling and what will they say for a tombstone and a date, for those rail men buried under the pike, these are sad times perhaps, or perhaps it was inevitable, or perhaps he is at peace.

If I could leer from my grave I would, or perhaps give a crooked eye, I am in a dark place and I want to be here, I want to be darker, I need to remember this, I need to hold on to this, I mustnt let the sand fly off into the oceans sun, but how?

If I am broken can I be fixed,
If I am lost can I be found,
If I am forgotten shall I be remembered,
If you have moved on is what was just a memory,
If I dream am I resented,
If my words no longer reach you do I still exist,
If I have moved forward is there no way back,
If you speak within your world does the willow sway in mine,
If the amber seals away this second will you find it days when I am long gone.

Delivering one self from Friday

Somewhere in these moments of tangibility I loose myself to such thoughts of mental decay. To surrender value is to become immortal and yet the value one places is enough to ensure disharmony. Life and the ever moving flow of what should be and what is.

Dreams seem to devour me and yet the only time I am awake is when I dream. Free to exist in connection with myself, free to challenge the force that restrains my will.

I saw madness in the eyes of a stranger, abuse and so much damage that words themselves could not reach a person so lost. Shock treatment I thought but I lacked the facilities and the means to electricute my guest or should we call them drop ins, perhaps Kamikazi pilots fits best.

When you find those that life has stripped from normalcy do you envy them. I long to be mad for justifying the very thoughts that connect limb to limb and guide these fingers to move and mesh in a world never mine but belong to those dreamers. Dreamers that tear away the rift between the sleeping world and the waking dawn.

Am I jealous of the world or is this self loathing just another means to an end when caffine fails and the air conditioning blows out. Bukowski perhaps would say fuck this and drink a beer. Tolerate nothing and all is tolerated, become nothing and find everything, the way is just a document, a text of sweet prose and even so I cling to it within this hurricane. I beg and plead for rational. I debate whether monday is a day or merely a nightmare begging to take on the shape and form of a dream no longer violated of innocence.

These thoughts dribble across my mind and I want more, frustration consumes me with this infant like understanding and I am lost here. Returning to work seems so unnecessary but again this is a dream I call my life.

Fortune for the fortune less

Insanely enough I have begun playing the lotto as if one out of many millions could actually be me. The reality of it is that no happiness or joy actually would come from success. How is it that we seek so much and in the end nothing remains. We cling to these delusions we deem to hold value of wealth and success. Our castles built on poor foundations sinking into the Moore's and yet we are always hopeful.

I look into the eyes of a man that has abused narcotics to such an extremity that his genetic make up has been altered. His ability to be calm and rational as outdated milk has curdled. He speaks loudly and laughs randomly offering me chocolate candy or a can of cat food. He is amazed by my ability to separate perforated paper and I jest that its not his fault he previously ripped the page into 3 separate pieces, it happens to all of us.

For a moment I ask myself what makes us different besides the counter that separate us. I read an article this morning about these archaeologist that seek to understand why the neanderthal become extinct. They hypothesis that perhaps the new species of man came into contact with the neanderthal wiping them out. Would I destroy this man if I had the power? Does his life have meaning? What purpose did his existent have and thus if he never came to be would others truly be affected.

I am drowning in work and this seems as if its my own personal ballad or daily war cry. Nothing makes sense accept the fact that tomorrow this will be here and more paperwork will rise up demanding conquest of my desk as if it was a castle so ancient Templar secrets are borne within.

Do I find humor in all of this because I am weak or do I laugh merely to keep from weeping?

I find no comfort in it but for a moment having him listen was salvation. A dreamcaster speaking of dreamers fondiling nightmares until they themselves collapsed from the intensity of fleeting moments. Madness as a sweet nectar defiled me and I cast sinister thoughts into being. Light upon light upon light I longed for more sight, aye to see nothing in darkness and yet to see. There was no accursed spirt, no harmfull dye cast, yet the wrong how glorious it is could be felt in every sinew. The wrong of blood flowing beneath vein and the stillness that comes from not having a reaction.

I contemplated happiness and saw no reflection in its mirror. Rocks become soup and spiders pick and choose their prey. Jobs drink of us until withered we are no more gayful youth driven mockers of life. Something in that frenzy is lost and we search dilligently to find it back. Memories drift away from our crisis as hair falling strand by strand. Maker your puppet speaks and its condition no longer reflects that of a star. Maker perfect your instrument but even now coffee does not have that tinge. Maker your craft is failing and the words are shouted across the room.

A glass of water to go hand in hand with this walker, a glass of water slowly becomes a paper dixy cup with moistened wax, pills follow, nothing meds and glitter remains everywhere, oh god how it sparkles.