Old births, new deaths there is a break between the existing and what once had existed my feelings turn into haunting memories, i stilll keep rolling over the eight millimeter in my mind. i cry when i watch them, a dream that crashed before it even took off the mind plays tricks, teaches you to hope. this idea youre indestructible, your goals, your desires, your beliefs. these intangables that are guarded by saints. and yet there is now a break between the existting and what once had existed. before my eyes i watch concrete turn into china then to a thousand glistening spectacles as it crashes to the ground there is beauty in the act death, but i am too occupied to notice the act of withdrawal hurts too much to heal and so ive lost. i stand sorrounded by the skeletons of past truths whove wandered off their providential paths suddenly facades seem to fade once subjects are out of context indeed how depressing liberating knoweledge can be i lived comfortably with the idea all my questions had been awsnered and yet now there is a break between the existing and what once had existed
A whistle A once guitar strap decorated by an aged flag Wrapped with memories, pinned with affection Tightly pressed against my hips Affection turned fashion, fashion turned function I wear old memories as clothes Sincerity begets fallacies, frowns turn smiles The belle of the ball, must always be dressed Every day a masquerade Routine acts, greeted with a new cast of assorted faces The roll I play, the face I wear, always remains stagnant The kettle of perfection is whistling at me Pressure creates ugly undertones I rush, but in a haste, trip and fall The act of capturing beauty, Incites everything but- As if when fighting a fire you‚re handed a hose of fuel And so I wear old memories as clothes Comfort, protection… Today a man asked, how does it feel to be so beautiful I replied ugly.
Blind shadows Obscure pigments cast blind shadows against chalky walls, their surface cracked battered and abused, even the absence of light fails to disguise the face of age. Obscure pigments, the color pink, its fairest hue, glorifying youth, a youth demolished, destroyed before it ever built. Absence of light, absence of color, deteriorating pigments, lost in a field of robotic corn. In this field nothing is capturing, the concept of natural remains void, there is repetition, an ugly consistency, a monochromic scheme of grey. This is a battlefield, everything living has died, each his own martyr, in the end there is only sameness, a unifying tragedy. The end to no end. Stalemate.