fighting idleness and mendicity thats prevails the b-rain wet streets of my mind
here's a verse (if it so wills) for the sake of a verse.
it isn't a movement nor a plan nor an explosion,
not a comet in dazzle nor dream nor curse.
it is a peaceful nuclear explosion at the worst-
seeking answers clogged in the tangled sewers of here, where i am.
relative peace is the carrot tied to the end of a stick
that these lines chase to catch-
they flows in patterns that attempt to immitate;
me and you.
thoughts dont fail me, words do.
muscle flexing
&
house warming-
the name of the exercise.
we're living for a possibility?
i try not to agree with anything cos there's always a chance i'l be corrected yet again, but with the little amount of thought that i can put in right now: yes, i think that there is a possibility, that thats what we live for.
but if you decide to halt on you tracks and just remain -just be- then there's no more carrot, and thus no possibility-conflict anymore. the saint in tapas. but why would you.... 'just be'?
The east-coast breeze,
Bends the branches of pine and coconut trees inward, like astral implosions;
Lifts the bamboo blinds off the window frames;
Finds my face on a warm sunday afternoon and reminds me that life is still in movement.
the mind soon hooks on to thoughts of 'her'.
survival instinct?
luf?
uncertainty.
probably read her wrong all along.
but she doesn't figure in my life for she never has entered, nor seems will enter it; but will linger in my thoughts, as a ghost of all possibilities that died before.
i live and sleep with the ghost of all possibilities that died in the past, reborn to the call of the moment.
some vague light dawns, only to sink again.
repetitions in disguise, or variety framed by lies?
