I feel the eighties from the aughties todayties. This is a ghastly cover of Joint Ventures Trink Bruder Trink. Bis zum nachsten mal Tschus
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The shine kissed the hills.
Warm grasses swayed beneath the pulling of the wind.
Cross legged and decidedly unclenched….uncloistered….
I gazed at gulls in their fleeting circles….
Should I tread down, once more, to the shoreline?
Should I kick the salty texture of the sea?
Which odd assortment of neural fire must I stoke?
Locomotion was such a drag.
A ritual for sluggards.
So, I sat, like the coastal grasses, heeding only the wind.
Would I become like the bleached driftwood?
Light but substantive…. yielding but substantial….
Was it even a worthy goal?
What is ‘worth’ anyway?
Besides a synapse thwarted…
The remaining sunlight had many hours.
I would keep them.
Stillness, what a joke…
Everything rebels against that clown.
To sit…eschewing motion…
The heart itself knows there is no escape…
And so it moves…so it rhymes…
So it keeps the tension.
So it produces time.
My lips want beer.
My skin wants touch…
Corpus cannot drift cannot wooden be…
Just effulgent suds…
Ethereal…
Uncatchable…
Without a bottle…
Glistening polychromatic in the shine
Kissing the hills
Swaying the grasses
Warmth
Legs grip to behold guls circumscribing
Exulting in direction
Choosing none
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to dream
to let the current
Barely breathin
Through the incense
That’s hidin
The cigarettes
And the mysteries
of the Orient
Are just histories
Wrapped and bent
Dropping into ashtrays
Just behind the whiskey glass
Rouding days
Up with tallies made of grass
You’re dirt
My dirty cheap perfume
And you hurt
With your strange silver smile in the gloom
Can’t dispel
That memory
The smell
Is too deep in my skin and my hair
Now there’s nothing left to do
But sit in the rain
With a head full of you
This much is plain
Drink in the dew
Till the morning unfolds
Like the pictures you drew
Still that perfume holds
Till I drown just to wash off
Must become a river
With a life like a moth
Dusty waters deliver
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Overclocked machines
Stuffed to the brim
With numbered
Listlessness so grim
So grimly unencumbered
To trim
Cutting meaning into action
Assembled and compiled
For a smoother traction
Cager faintly smiled
The neatness the precision
How carefree
To live without decision
In the geometric See
The paths are set
Garbage collected
There’s no regret
No life so masterfully
Architected
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Garden walls
Blooming wells
Dancing halls
Myriad hells
Gaffes on Dreher
Dead eyed stare
The sorts that disappear
Static glare
Woodpanneled and antique
You look pretty on the stair
I may as well be speaking Greek
Yea, I live there
Selling metros to the dealer
Beneath my hair
Time is the healer
I can spell it out
So I do
Though I’d rather shout
As we disintegrate from view
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The Fractal Journal 