paranoiawilldestroy
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Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your spiders thigh,
Spins;
Away;
My soul,
Like strawberries,
Kissing,
And children,
Fishing,
And art,
On a wall.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your galloping mill,
Grinds;
Towards;
My grave,
To lap,
At my chalice,
And sup,
At my tears,
And revolve,
While I sin.
Oh, Rambling heartbreaker,
Your fumbling pantheon,
Feels;
Out;
My thoughts,
They blind,
My eyes,
And bind,
My hands,
And supply,
Where I approach.I'm going to try and keep very quiet. Wrote this 17 years of age, one of the first efforts.
I think it's best until the book is done. I know how to ward my poet's sensibilities, but I fear you won't. Or can't. But mostly won't.
I'm going to be honest, I think my book might change your perspective on what this is. Listen to Soft Parade and consider that we're dealing with a being who's lost hope. And hope is a choice.
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The fucker in Jim's day:
Ethereal Bodies.
Imagine a course where no waters flow,
An essence that only in death we know,
Imagine a rhythm, thundering with joy,
Or a source that no disease can destroy.
Already ancient when our race began,
Observer now while nothing goes to plan,
It meshes with skin, meanders through veins,
And brings blood to boil to ignite our brains.
It can be seen in wisps or heard in chords,
Is the instinct lunging hands onto swords,
It gasps as we press lovers against walls,
And shares our sorrow as the curtain falls.
To a lake bespattered by dying light,
Where laughing children splash, so quick and bright,
To the twitch of swift tendons at the sound,
Of the Maestro’s chubby fingers as they pound.
To the sudden, heady surge of power,
As the Führer entwines strings of flowers,
To the awestruck gasps of sheer elation,
As Moses flees from Pharaoh’s frustration.
The insurgent responsible for war,
The infinite connoisseur of all lore,
Superior to the monarch of kings,
Requiring nothing, bar the gifts it brings.’ -