vitrine
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Description:
non sense. at its finest.
vitrine
it's not the transparency of feelings but the perspective from within gray clouds and the slow wistful weening - it's not the fear of being alone but being immediately alone, indefinitely I could say I am bereft of care which I am, but in a sense I could also say it isn't being alone that I fear as much as myself and the perspective of that self without any other insight besides my own- which is to say, I fear my perception the inability to be in a way that is expressed expressing every intricate ramification of an insignificant existence, a bleeding that gushes because the pressure within is greater than the outward flow between the lips of torn thighs the cut, tear, cleft of reality revisiting the externally binding definition of my existence. knowingly saying a misunderstood thing while unable to change the outcome. uselessly knowing. Useless. like the banging of little fists on a glass pane revisiting the gruesome facts of reality, the death of meaning, the end of caring... the patter of intransmutable want, desire, hope against the frigid formality of structures the classical, wanton necessity of survival or is it time, and space - spacetime, timespace a sad little face, scaped by tears and frustration in the form of bloated cheeks, and dilated blood vessels-- the searing of cool tears against cooling cheeks |
Submitted on 2013-09-15 23:04:22 Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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| Marc: So you've given up on transpicuous and gotten into a lightning bow hat pick. Atrociously impetuous impudence isn't getting it anymore on the impromptu innuendo juncture. You imagine getting into a pugnacious audacity but you're afraid it could become a brusque macabre abrupt and leave you bereft of companionship. Ah the slow wistful weening. Enough to strike fear in the heart of the fiercest troll. You've already tried to be the transcendent nimbus nimiety nihilism exorcist. Why you could even harm babies with this stuff. But apparently it's all an illusion. So much for the existential rationals of identity crisis. Risque rive rollick and reaving ravel rave it raw leaves you revisiting your identity crisis and imagining the objectified manifest thereof. Perhaps the reason we poets are so misunderstood is because language, or linguistic syntax is sheer dialectic semantics, pseudonym epithets of nomenclatural malaprop and misnomer. So much for its symbolical regalia. I can see you are distracted to distraught. The macabre gruesome of yore. Your enigma's entity fights against the conceptions of your sentience, or was that just your wristwatch you were checking. When I was your age I had a bout with crying over the magnitude of the problem, but I decided to relate to the heights of my mentality instead. Well, what do you think? Missed it by ten yards and a mile you say. What's to say? It can be difficult to see the objects inside a snow globe. Bruce PS: I wish you'd try my post 'Transpicuous' or maybe 'Anonymity Emanation'. I'd love to hear your comments. | Posted on 2013-09-16 00:00:00 | by monad | [ Reply to This ] | |
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