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Literature Text
It's someone, somewhere in there. An enigma without the preference or any sense of knowledge,
like the ectoplasm as it roots through my spine, imposing a ghosted reality between already aching discs.
So thank you.
Yes, lumbagos and bones.
It's slow now, not much to follow.
The slabs of potential, rancid and coagulated. Aspirations
falling into rotten disarray.
Stout, stolen, and without virtue. A completion of cellulite and ammonia,
mustard gas persuading vibrated bleach;
gallons of carbonated poison.
baby steps
Delicious wasn't exactly the right word, so as the atmosphere toiled with
indecision, for a moment, I was able to breathe.
Mounds of clarity, dense
and raw,
we were transparent
cellophane and ice,
young eyes,
happy-go-lucky hearts,
ignorance, perhaps
bliss.
Liberty bellowed against canyon wall, spirits of red earth and freedom invigorating hope,
an ancient ghost reconstructing labyrinths collapsed through
the mind, repairing corridors long since
inhabitable.
Abandonment remained an invisible event, the translucent swirl of importance,
communicating demons
through art.
Murals criticized by function,
pebbles of credibility.
Would you reconcile this rejection,
revoke this exile?
As the hands of God quiver
before Creation,
the manifestation of
enigma to
reality.
like the ectoplasm as it roots through my spine, imposing a ghosted reality between already aching discs.
So thank you.
Yes, lumbagos and bones.
It's slow now, not much to follow.
The slabs of potential, rancid and coagulated. Aspirations
falling into rotten disarray.
Stout, stolen, and without virtue. A completion of cellulite and ammonia,
mustard gas persuading vibrated bleach;
gallons of carbonated poison.
baby steps
Delicious wasn't exactly the right word, so as the atmosphere toiled with
indecision, for a moment, I was able to breathe.
Mounds of clarity, dense
and raw,
we were transparent
cellophane and ice,
young eyes,
happy-go-lucky hearts,
ignorance, perhaps
bliss.
Liberty bellowed against canyon wall, spirits of red earth and freedom invigorating hope,
an ancient ghost reconstructing labyrinths collapsed through
the mind, repairing corridors long since
inhabitable.
Abandonment remained an invisible event, the translucent swirl of importance,
communicating demons
through art.
Murals criticized by function,
pebbles of credibility.
Would you reconcile this rejection,
revoke this exile?
As the hands of God quiver
before Creation,
the manifestation of
enigma to
reality.
angel's pregnant with the future:
"God, i hope you don't turn out to be
an aborted fetus,"
"God, i hope you don't turn out to be
an aborted fetus,"
© 2011 - 2024 EmaciatedandEpitaphs
Comments4
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It reminds me of this:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time. And
all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying Nothing.
The lines might not be correctly placed as it's from memory. But although it is complex, the aura surrounding it, reminded me of what I just quoted - my favourite monologue from Macbeth.
Kudos
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time. And
all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying Nothing.
The lines might not be correctly placed as it's from memory. But although it is complex, the aura surrounding it, reminded me of what I just quoted - my favourite monologue from Macbeth.
Kudos