With frivolous dumbells he marched on in the face of the sun, skin burning and peeling away from his skull until he was nothing but a bag of bones, bones upon the sand, bones upon the seraph walking the heavy air above. A tower of stone sits festering a spell beneath sour and reeking with age, green soup of letters on the wing of flying buttresses. It's all but one single thing, a single fact on the nose of a wooden puppet; a grasshopper snapping at the wind. The song is weak and thin, it barely penetrates the soup. Useless words, useless pain. Laughing at the goldfish in the sky.

Say you laugh at the wind snapping at your heels? A dog of air came winding down the path, looking for your pastimes. Anyone can see the useless cane stick in the mud. From all you came under the pain of birth, it's only the natural course when the laughter turns you mad inside. Paint the walls with red and the eyes with white; there's no point to the weight inside, but it does not diminish its severity. Case in point: the love of an eagle for the sea. Can't you see the glassblowers under the water of medium? Hah, and you thought you knew. You were a fool as a butterfly on the wind.

The ability to see beauty is the beginning of our moral sensibility. What we believe is beautiful we will not wantonly destroy.

not wantonly but carefully thinking about it every step of the way to destroy to make it precious because it no longer is. He thinks that as he swings the hammer the hammer bright silver and oak beautiful because it changes laughing laughing changing how beautiful is that

she reaches up and pushes her hair back and he thinks I want to destroy you but he's too careful for that. too careful and she's too beautiful for that to be destroyed in one red red bleeding painted moment just destroy her in a low slow careful run

he wants to be important enough to her that she wants to destroy him. do you find me beautiful he asks and she stabs him deep and laughs and laughs and laughs.

let's destroy each other on purpose he says low in her ear and she says yes yes yes a thousand times she says yes

First in the way there is understanding. That is all. Find it in the mountains and in the well, in the back behind in the underwater in the the the the. Four times and then five.

Oh aurora; oh brilliance oh light.

I've never been a pink banana, floating along the sunlit plains, surrounded by elephants grazing in the meadows at the tits of the great giraffes.

- perhaps that's because time is not runic, but rather smells like a rotting orange on a golden day, when god's head pops above the sunlit clouds, and clouds drizzle down from the heavens.

have you considered crazy, because mad worms can create a mighty stream in the Mississippi, when everyone is is above the meadow, but larks are mostly taken from the head.

-perhaps we should eat tulips, since they are the most gracious host of the nine giraffes, when nonsensical rainbows light the path of the seven nights on the isle of forever.

not before dinner.

Fin

pail of dark mildew fresh smelling water with a line and a nail in it is a nice thing to wash your face in it gets in your hair then it gets old. i left it outside in a circle of rocks and covered it with leaves when it got cold and called it gazpacho and ate some

children must die in the winter old people too

what is the reason so many things are saved in garages small stones boxes of rusted smelly metal parts vines gardens enormous two gallon jar of chocolate pretzels. she must have been eighty-five we were eleven. she rubbed it on her breast over and over and that was inside and that was what it was then we sat in her garage that was growing over with the old lady sprouts and flowers and old books like what you think california must have been before the fishermen took over

who would choose this life, or that life

keeps its brain but not its liver no skin no hair no fingers or toes no skinned knees no spine or lungs or stomach--

only pathways knitted and tangled the silver pathways of mind that never die.

so you'd better keep them or someone else will take them when you let go.

Several miles away the sea of course--but to Ganesha the raft of juggernauts was just another Tuesday in the land of milt, his eye around the world around the corner chasing Fanny Sequins to illogical conclusions. Love had all the charm of a walrus, the provocation of a fan hurling all Japan and her cranes to the waves.

In the caves, treasures: but rocking horses know their own secrets and have sinister clubs. They won't let the fat kid join. His mother wraps him in lace every morning and tells him he's beautiful. He is--but silver knives and knowing how the driver tires and running down the endless kill to catch the fire that never burst a heart takes all of me and dries it like an apple doll.

But still--he is beautiful.

Everyone takes it all too seriously, flailing about as it it all really matters. Not really caring how it goes, what it does, why they do it, when they want it, what they get from it. Not really seeing what the main purpose is, but doing it nonetheless. It's serious business, they say, but they don't know what that means. I don't think anyone does. But does it really matter? I think it only matters if you really care, and we don't care, so I guess that settles that.

That being of course the purpose of our lives. To care and not care all at the same time. Taking ourselves seriously and other people seriously and everything about everything seriously, but then when it comes down to the line, it isn't very serious because you can't own up to it. So, it's as if it were never serious at all, just frivolous, and meaningless. But to someone it has purpose, or maybe not ... it's a mystery ... it tells the correct time three times a day, and I supposed that's all that matters. Right? Morning, noon, and night ... but not always these three times. Sometimes twice at noon and none at night, but three in the morning and one later that day. But who keeps track of the time anyway? Candles burn down, flames flickering in the dark night. Licking at the moisture in the air. Trying to fight a battle to which it might loose. But they won't loose because they are the champions, and the champions always win. Because they take themselves tooooooo seriously.

((WIN!!! I think that's the first time I've done that (XD)!))

Used in a struggle for independence, Lovesausage spilt the galaxy with his humongous liquid detergent filled rubber balloon,that even clowns would bow down to his excellence at telling lies and sleeping with peasant women, who ate from the bowels of misused horses which went "VROOM,Vroom"..as they traveled the galaxy with their mane flowing as a dewdrop on a Mosquitos ass.

behind a world of brown, red, rust.
decay, the smell of shit and rot mingling with the earthy scents that remind you of your grandmother's garden at sunday brunch where the conversation was awkward but the food was good. good like a vintage wine or a night of wild sex. but it is still death.

The subjective nature of what is "reasonable" is an inconsistent constant in the universe. People seem to think that if they believe in something that makes it true, but they couldn't be more wrong. Truth is that which cannot be shaken, what cannot be disputed, what cannot be; although it is obvious to say; dis-proven. That which is even remotely questionable cannot be considered the truth.

What lies beyond the truth is something more, something much grander that only a human being could create. Fantasy, fiction, elaboration, and creativity. These concepts that were created by humans and that are uniquely human. An Ape is not creative, he can only tell what is real, his only goals are to survive. But humans reach beyond the truth to enrich the universe and exercise the unique gift given to them.

But to ignore the truth in favor of fantasy then there is something broken in that human. A person who can no longer tell that the difference between reality and fantasy has committed a crime against the unique ability he has been given. In a way he has become even worse than the Ape.

all breaks down everything digests and then civilisation is in ruins (the problem with this is my brain outstrips my fingers racing) anyway, the transitory nature of the universe is inherent in the smallest things, birds ladybugs (I called him queenie, he was orange) you know that's just how the world works nothing stays stability is illusory cursive writing is um. That broke. Sentence structure is very breakable like a vase from china which sits on a pedestal until you walk into it because you always do isn't that how it goes it goes along a long way down when everything falls apart the problem with poetry is we want everything to be beautiful but really everything is is is. we deny this.

in conclusion, the zombie apocalypse will result in a breakdown of communication but we will still play this game because language is the most basic element of civilisation and will be the last lost of it.

There's a day that's different and I looked in its foot anf I declaired that something was idfferent and then I jumped down off the wagon and drewa line from here to there and with a great sigh I laughed I laughed hard and fast and gathered something from the sand I was dark and hard and grand and I knew that it was something something that was proud and timmid and forged in evil complete evil evil so strong that I had to devour it with a mighty gulp oh it was so equisite I was evil too I was as evil as I always wanted to be and I had the perfect excuse I had swallwed an evil seed do you believe it you had better believe it

In the dim lighting of the street lamp, the one who can't be seen sees nothing. With one hand in its bag and the other somewhere else, it tries to reminisce. A map of the town, but it doesn't want to seem like a tourist. Tourists are noticed, noticed is worse than not.

Instead, walk along the road and think of nothing in particular. Something is always somewhere, but not for you to find. It laughs harshly, but the only thing there to hear it is a fat pigeon.

The mother bear looked down on the baby bear and cautioned him not to play in the words. The baby bear wondered, since it was a bear why it shouldn't be allowed in the woods. The mother bear, in her infinate wisdom, told the baby bear that it was because if it went into the woods, it would invariably run into shit. Or it would have to shit. it was always the same with bears and woods, especially when trees fell, because bears in the woods always hear the trees fall, even when no one else does. So she suggested that instead that instead of going into the woods that perhaps the baby bear should think of a game. And so the baby bear became godzilla and wrecked countless japanese cities. And he found that there was a game that he liked after all. It was make the rubble bounce.

The end

Nothing ever happened, nothing ever happens, in the grand scheme of things never anything happens. Its all the same, all repeats, all reruns, but this is where life gets fun. You don't have to worry. Nothing is permanent. When you're dead and gone all will be forgotten and no matter what you hurt or what you caused in the end it will all not matter, at least in time. The here and now will be pain, will be sorrow, will be sad, and this is why we must strive to care. If we don't we leave ourselves open for misery and sorrow. If we care we not only make others care about us, but have one up most people who do not. We can guilt, we can feel better about ourselves. In caring there is selfishness as in all things, but in the end is that not what is best in life? A lovely little thing that benifits all rather then one? To comprimise and care and help and in exchange feel better about yourself? They say there is no such thing as a selfless act, and this is good. I'd rather do something good and feel better about myself then be left miserable and helpful. That is how life works. One end of two swords am I, where I am the tip and blade.

Cohenient thoughts:Wasn't that bad, last part made little sense. I think I was thinking of a double edged sword.