Apologetic Spent Checks

It's a glass fire. The edge waited pompously for us to throw our ambitions over. The landing of them crackled and sparked like fresh poplar leaves. Crystalline structure failed and recomposed, flames hueing of red and purples. Assumptions had left meaningless, empty wells that the trickled-down tears had no choice but to dry up upon. They said we could be anything. The imposters lined the side-streets of bohemian decay and washed-out artistry. Openness and compassion, a dry wastegate, only rushing forth when times are bleakest and never allowing enough. They had lied. As disappointment took hold, we braced for impact. Pieces of paper described the waning, the failure, the tragedy. Soft petals now crushed into soil. Speaking scenes of gnarled, wicked metal now a burning heap. Speeds incalculable. Clouds parting. Lens flare. The clarity was too bright to withstand. Like a sullen star, all draped in flowers and backdrops, gives woe thought to the ancient spires of old. The pillars creaked with the weight of it.  As this melting sun obliterated knowledge, the raised glass from sand bludgeoned the skyline.

Marmoe

We followed our pillowcase tendons. A sudden appearing drought upon air. As if  to say thou knowest me not. Here, here supple friend. These piercing sighs pittering, pattering; drawn out stares one might otherwise leave slightly fallen. Aye, says I.

For the better of us is often crooked. Foul shades leaping from mirror to mirror, forgetting its intention on the plane. Coloring reds and yellows into the belly of us.  And even so...the mild child's eyes. Bright, weary, aged, unsullied. Speak with but a whisper they say. However, the ocean never refused a shout. One cannot hear themselves yelling into that abyssal sepulcur.

Us and Them

We are all just scared little animals. Some growing wise, some not. In this era, intelligence is mocked and displays of arrogance and outspokenness are rewarded. The contents of critical thinking never applied to them.

And with gumdrop eyes.... Smiling at the term agreements, buying unneeded status items to stroke undeveloped egos. The last of us peddling our lives away. Faces of humility and desperation carried us off.

Then some sank into the salt. Drying up, dilapidating like a house left to the wilds. We watch them slither among the streets and concreted footpaths with doubt in their eyes and sand in their veins. To soak in the waters of the Earth, to breath blue fires into hearts. The darkness took us all.  Blank and obvious, we were the oil-touched ships of a dying generation whose bad seeds and stuttering amnesia signaled fires to the passerby's contemplative sonder.

Shamed Gold

Like pedaling with no hands, calm assures me. Deceitful tin encasing copper grins. The fellows by street lamps speak a tear to me and the shame knowest them not.

Sad hours seem long, as do the days climbing rocks with no rope and washing mud from skin. Trees glancing wind shields through locks long forgotten. However, vanity still swoons like some old friend run-in at a coffee shop. Acquainted, yet not endeared. And as those words shiver from me like beads of water off leaves, so too gone are the  syphoning of mirror-looks.

Prologue to an Epilogue

It was the afternoon of a Friday I had decided to die. I had repeated my vows to the Earth as it smiled more sneeringly than the moon. There were no more sinking ships to save. No more bills left unpaid or debts to settle. No more potential to squander. Now just simple principles standing erect on an open plain, I open my eyes to the reality of my glory. Personal though it may be, I was tired of wasting the hours. The only thing worth saving at this point would be someone else. 

Sooner

You grow from the inside. Sharpness crisp with the after-thoughts of lost wonder. You'll fall. Outpouring intellect of twisted misconception and desperate candor. Names of the unknown fitted on loosed lips like taciturn gloves shielding warmth. Shall the wine dance, we dissolve willfully. Placid smiles swimming endings. You’ll roar. Dead shade carrying body to kerosene paramount. Half-way drowned, the last of you floats to absolution. Sheeted, drastic notions whittling deeds forgotten. Brood no longer. Petty nothingness. Faded unchanged. I’ll wish I had witnessed sooner so stars could kiss our toes. The sky will tear us from the ground stealing our dreams, but we shall have them all to ourselves.

Speechless Edition - What Dreams May Come

Speechless Edition - What Dreams May Come from Crowe on Vimeo.

A first in a new series once a week. Edited films with as much speech removed as possible and effective music. Let the story take you away. Words are just symbols.

Understand.

In defense of the stoned. To alter consciousness is to defamiliarize oneself. Dissociated from habitual ways of thinking, listening, and reading, the stoned are often rendered vulnerable and open to strange ideas.

To experience this video or song in an altered state is to experience the flavored meanings of sound and images. The habits of sober states sometimes white-wash meaning------dismissing strangeness and creativity.

 ----August Wissmath

Leafers

We left the city to watch the leaves rain, touching hands and laughing hysterics.  It's some backward contention.  Your press for harmonics.  A hurt doubt offering some godspeed.  I loved your damage.  I burned your heart.  You will never see this face again...  We will all be barren of emotion.  A blank mutation exchanged immutable.  The colors of trees were a palette for melancholy as we sat among the horizon golden.  And you had not read these words. And you had not blessed this sin.  And you had not lost your mind yet. I only wish I could remember.

A Lack of Over-eventful Evenings

It's a black fade.  Sheepish dark.  Loving embrace.
And I forgot who you were.

It was only one dream and we blew the stars away from our memory, stripped bare cold, and hated good-byes.
All we wanted was love; twisted smile, bearing satisfaction as if that was nothing to ask for.
Touching my self-indulgence from a cigarette.

You bloom the obvious lights. Blame misfortune and high kings for such interpreted gestures. And we can't all become saints. This barren land won't hold water anymore. So islands are the last of us and all minds are stained. Hively, they chose viciously. Consciousness was the only option. One by one, we become one.

The Wounder

Shrapnel built of verb knives cuts veins readily worn on my sleeve.
Dwindled to my last, keeping my eyes down, averting wildly to the back of eyelids.
And it was.....and it was my death of a thousand.

Walking back to the seas of formidable woes.
Clasping loud to the east of wanting to leave.
We can go. We can go to the death of a thousand.

"It's so old, he is lost." said the wounder of wines.
A sentimental tricked into living the locust.
She is gone.  She has gone with the death of a thousand.

As we kiss, blades slice, leaving parts uncooked.
It's easy to dance with these broken toes.
If a thousand are gone then we're one in a million.
Fall together in love, drinking in the pavilion.
We are sworn, sworn to wrap arms and hold tightly.
Breach the mess, you can tear up, I can easily drown you.
Evil swung, I tripped, made it look like a knockdown.
In the car, we sleep, freezing black to your toes.
Your pure. Yet, no purer to the wounder.

Postings of a Young Life - Ep. 2

Ex-lover.

Incomplete and by comparison a shabby decoy for my dream.
I saw you walk the stairs,
Wandering with aim dancing in strides toward my bed.
Coals are the palms meant for comfort upon my back.
My laughter ceased amidst the brush of locks from my face.
Heavy chemicals taking course to pinnacles I had forgotten.
You had dressed blatant, a wise regard to a false security.
You who knew nothing of true loss.
I saw you held in salt water,
your own tears, a saline disgust.
The wash of make-up, an unwelcome deliberate twist of my disenchantment.
Glass emotion.  Glass heart.  Glass brow.
So your road be paved and withered under your sinned heels.
Mine, a deep monochrome pumping this dilapidated soul.
Bitter torment to the contemned happiness unreachable.

Postings of a Young Life - Ep. 1 Knoxville, A Car Accident, and the Former Love

This is from 2005.  It includes why not to do air duster, a car wreck in the rain into a tree, 2 former girlfriends, day trips to Knoxville twice, and other assorted crap.  I also suck at cutting video.  So.......awesome.

Steady-Winged Acetone

Charred whiskey slid like pedals to the floor.
My eyes gloss and stomach beckoned.
I cripple to the temptation.
Less suddenly becomes more and the light becomes too bright.
Pinching the synapse, clasping the short glass,
I make shortcomings with dreamed rememberings.
I study the tape and steal belongings which were mine to begin with.
The books misled to facts scoured to the ashen leaves.
And we continued our self-worth burning a pyre to the tempered glass.
The label had hid the noxious liquid's strength.
I had laughed with seasons of scores written to the gestures of rain drops.
We touched the eye lids of skies wanting snow upon our fields.
I, then, touching my torch once again to the salt water,
Swallow yet another faltered vague fantasy.
Promising entirely to swallow me empty.

<(^_^)>

A trip back to high school

Something I threw together during my younger times....

Kissing Through Glass

The shelf life was enough to make you sick.  Expiration considering mentionables.  The smell of soap in your hair stood at the forefront of lasting impressions.  I would walk away from this one briskly.  Clasping sweaty dollars in my pocket, writhing at thoughts of meditation.  I stare into the moon, walk into the ocean, and forgot why I breathed. After the waves subsided, ripples tickled my toes, dripping wet.  Swinging necklaces over prisms, figuring the distance to the nearest star, I'll never see you like they did.  And you just may never see me at all...


 Wednesday, 02 February 2011

Laughing like Hell....

I had selfishly calculated interest into the thing I had loved the most.  Then I turn around and sail from it on a boat with wings, smiling placidly with glazed eyes.

In this ditch I lose myself.  Not looking just leaping.  The risk involved, nill.  There can be no yes's.

I cannot define the moment of breakage.  Simple gestures and aspects of myself which tear this paper plane.  A paper plane wet with indifference and dismality.  My darkness consumes, yet I self-destruct with a smile like an atomic bomb.  The dark night is beauty and I have always been an owl.  No denial to answer to.

And my heart becomes weak.  Lymph nodes swell with the molds of leaves.  Lungs blocked restricting the winds.  And we all have a picnic in this thunderstorm.  It is equal and true.  The scrapes are for iodine and the drinking for alcohol.

You may have caught the glint of perception from this wave; however, this beast is golden, immune, and discrete.  Just like your thoughts.  Your secrets.  Your depravity.

These days are a wet shining leaf, absolved of petty cares.  Blinking shall suffice.

There is a greater plan at work here.

Life can't be so serious if no one makes it out alive anyway.

May 21, 2009

A Handle You've Worn

I'll take my collapsible wings somewhere else
I had never seen a rainbow such as this
Mechanical filth in sulfuric acid screaming in metallic bliss.
But these were not the cries of death, yet of shame
a flowering forth of foul nectar, and necessity of such.
We could piss on our shirts for unbreakable rope, and
we would only bore a hole-hulled vessel heading towards destruction.
A last glimpse of hope in a fiery land cast towards death.

"Why grow old?", she said.

"Because the fungus permits it so." I replied.

And we lifted our heavy feet over dew-laden grass,
gulps of orange juice leaving a stout tart on our lips.
For this was much easier than explaining these failed ironies,
Accepting our own lost greatness, fall from space. Court the darkness.
Where in we formerly could escape, but now becomes our tomb.

So now the energy is devoid, we've compromised for dark energy.
A shade heavier than it's translucency would derive.

We are all empty and full at some points.



Dec 17, 2008

The Sour and the Sweet

It's not growing up that hurts, it's losing the connections you had when you were young that burn the very core of your understanding, and perspective of the world, requiring you to mature to an absurd and sometimes unhappy level.

I wish I were ignorant to the facts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gloom and gold has subsided.
She wiped her hair from her eyes.
A simple exchange of blood and dye.
A scissor cut to your paper burn.
As the daisies will have you for breakfast.
I want to run into someone like a wall of gum.
Stuck, unhindered in my pretense for adoration.
For only one person to understand these words.
Where do my intellect-seeking inhibitions end?
It must be easy for some who are blind.
For it to seem like what I say does not matter.
The blind cannot see the words, simply feel the bumps.
I'll cut that part out lobotomy style.
So that the next may have me ignorant and blissful.
Analytical behavior stand for a curse as much as an upper hand.
Only actions may explain it's wrath.



^_^


Sep 22, 2008