The Offer of The Sounds

 

 

Did anyone

 

ever tell you?

 

A tall tale,

 

never spoken;

 

forgotten by

 

no one but

 

the otters

 

playing death time

 

inside

 

warmer waters...

 

 

Spill a couple

 

bucks;

 

a burr

 

to stir

 

unwanted critics,

 

forlorn...

 

 

Unto the bottom

 

of the pot.

 

 

I was finding

 

nothing

but

 

constant

senses of loss.

And also

 

the missing links

 

 

in

between

 

 

the ricochets

 

of life.

Quarters

buy the pounder,

naught by weight,

as they say

bye bye

to non

forms of slaughter;

it's the laughter

 

of nonsensical

 

euclidean

 

anticipations.

 

 

Off, wrinkly old

 

souls

 

saying hello.

 

 

Into concave

 

mountains of solitude

 

 

and hope...

 

 

My mirror serves

 

thy filler,

 

the sharpest, not by blade.

 

Knot my entrails,

 

up becoming,

my sensations

 

pity squandered.

 

 

Into seldom

 

portions.

 

As I aspire

 

to create

 

the same oxidation

 

as I breath

 

away

 

into landscapes

 

when I dream.

 

 

Replicating a blaze

 

to burn-freeze

 

the shadows away.

 

 

Walking in cells

 

and polishing reds.

 

I forgot about

 

the pain,

 

again.

 

Of shapes?

 

Its wonder.

 

Alas,

 

the render 

 

of notion,

a path well drawn,

 

and ready to follow

 

when deep

 

in trenches

 

of tainted motions.

The mud of brazen

 

smokes

built views from

 

the crumbles

 

of rusty bases.

 

 

We juggle the hours

 

away, into vacuums,

 

 put coal into

the brazing

 

darken chambers.

 

 

Design your days as

 

brittle as

 

ceramics.

 

 

Find the spot to

 

pull the curtains

 

into fold.

And bend

the improbable

corners.

 

Of our house,

 

left to tempered

weathers,

 

and the force

 

 

of fires left free

 

to wander

 

into the town

 

at night...

 

 

The desert

 

sets new motions,

 

as the emotions

 

voted void.

 

 

I grab the circles

by non-existent

 

ends.

 

 

A pleasantry

to put and end

 

to all dismay.

Too much array.

Too many trains.

So little ways to take

an exit stair to main

floors, up there,

where no sound dares

to eviscerate a light.

We got quasars

burning,

dying,

inside our pockets

next to

 

The Change.

We got sunshine,

 

we got handouts.

 

 

We got reality as

 

a playground

 

left to find us.

 

 

If you can grab

 

your soul into a bubble.

 

 

See your steps

 

as the viewer.

 

 

Leave the controller

 

on the desktop.

 

 

And step into

 

the most proximate

 

of windows.

 

 

Feel the rays of ancient

 

Gods

 

rotting into energy;

 

and leaving tears of diamond

for trail blazers

to encounter.

 

We can live without

 

anything.

 

 Alas.

 

 

Our Rhythm.

 

We'll create everything,

 

and set its path into devotion.

 

A thrill of countless

 

contortions.

 

 

My tender render

 

to greater senses

 

and think of nothing

 

 but

 

my only ambition:

 

C O A L I T I O N