Thursday, April 17, 2014

Ancient Mem'ries

We are right now living in an ancient civilization

         our temple is a dilapidated house slowly falling off the side of the mountain
a mysterious ruin once inhabited by forgotten people


all them years just a burning to the ground
    our mem'ries a flowing echo

Time strands unravelling


The part spectral ghost of motion returned Comrade as smoked dog
This corroded curtain of golden curls baking out in noonday thought
Heard     smelt         sure was pleasure down under the hoofed mime’s plane

                It got real quiet within
seeing the unfolding of epochs
Bare         unequal     swollen arms unpreviously known to themselves
The Flowering Flames drug insues                    beyond valley mills drains
We must have slept along the way                  before mulched wine spiral
    is stark stream lover. While still being another.
Them e-mergers, hovering demon swelled will.                Burrows in mind
another converscent hum still.

This day I have left to the wind.

It is not cold yet,
but my blisters are already coming back.
My dormancy must’ve been burnt out.

Now monotony comes to collect all the pieces of the things I’ve collected.
I, the wind, careless, taking

time to discern melodies.
 I watched the genius species

fight the fire while moonlighted thru the leaves.
This was some image I could take away & not ever desire

conclusion.
Someone said that it felt like the end of time & I just wandered around watching them burn it

up.
I chose to find the demons & they were inside me when I looked down.
I tried to find their roots

cut em out
 Only their shadows were reminders, I couldn’t even watch their faces change into insects.


The woods where my seed was planted glowed, I hovered thru them & smelt the process pulling me in

 I won’t abandon the Silent wind,

I will find my children,                 let them breathe the air that I’ll save for them.
    The fever makes me sad afterwards.

Celestial Veil. The twofold life process.

It was unattainable.
Across the river
the desolate afternoon fed on the distant cattle

Who remembered that Witch’s birth on the Crescent of Illusion?
Some ill-tempered fantasy of Sun gods still in remorse,
considering the Silence from which they were born.

This is where Here is.
                        Here,
where the pork empire feasts on our feelings,
“where a sterile environment still feels warm.”
   
                        Here,
in the dying light of the day gods,         Swarming.
       
        Those sun speckles that the insect freckles dent.
        The SmokeWind breathes Us baked bodies.
Base or malignant                 that which is reborn.

One must be reborn Again into the encapsulated larvae,
                        the corrugated fever.

My response to a filament is a course that is taking me like I’m a particle of leaking rain on this ball of cotton.
   
    Those bull feathers wizarding spider blood on son’s graves.
    They were the soft killers,
        preserved as sugar,
they swept the storms.
   
We spent the hypothesis of Soul-Death unconsciously,
        while waiting patiently in lines of empty corpuscles.

        You medians of culture!
            You swamps!         breathing nitrous foment into the Wind-Ears
                            must have made an illegal decision.
Instead of the blissful elimination of All-Time w/ Heatwaves,
 it will be the slow sink of Icy Sleep
    in which your children will lunge, hop, scotch,
& fulfill all their parent’s dreams.
           
            Drag-on,
                you ancient Aeon o’ Decay.

Then we’ll bury your face in the shavings of them dead trees,
and wrap your veins in their leaves.
    Here are the seasons we were once aware of.
A mirror was manifested out of my third eye.
It was always a Little big God.

The wind has closed in on our dream.


those red blinking lights up on the hill, that's where satan sleeps.
all the other lights in the valley are his thoughts.

A Temple was founded by a shadow of remorse that extended from the control tower growing out of the ghost mine.


The shell is composed of wind,
the garbage grows like Kudzu from within.

It has survived thus far due to the support of supernatural symbols and mythical charity.
Thanks to all amongst the decay who have enjoyed this process

Garbage is the underlying theme.
Without which we would not understand our history of the future.