Exists—every alley in the castle. In her plumes of verdant noble grief—the inordinate lattices of weeds overtaking the vast stone walls. Grayed imp for seas they pass us on. In the walls, in the walls, the prince awakens to the sound of wind in the reeds. No, tonight I have slept in. But it has been many years. Whispers down the hall from his chambers, where veiled intact architects repossess the secrets of purported dreams. Sinister Oatley Macabre Arudah leans into the pages of the text to be seen. But then what of the untold masses not frittered in this world, nonexistent to the sheltered fiefdom. The inner sanctums breached with love or loss likewise at hailed a distance dill-wert in. No can you not describe. What were we doing in the all-ways all-tides. I complete a sanguine seeking. In rest well oh do you say who was under the spell I saw us looking at one another dancing together doing lovers’ things and wept.
I became the saddest thing in the central nervous system’s world and made of these lies I told myself little ornaments to the behemoth of night their own raving mad-sprees of light. I been sold to a high bidder whose arts are the span of centuries. I request a diet Mtn Dew. I drink it. I place an importance on empathy. Plenty of duress to the castle still looming over the clouds the world beneath a strange sort of city breath getting exhaled continuously. Venice Spree and the head antics. Denote little dialogues on the footnoting of the latticework weeds. Call up their dreams in the sweet-relief way. To map onto the world onto their thoughts—the untarnished shoes of the veiled intact architects. Lay rung doe-lee.
Crosst into the spectrum of nonlight the grave swim of lees of green wind took us apart in ways and put us back in ways and did not alight altogether at the same. But were to be a sable right. I crosst the fields of the mind to find the little aubergine mushroom aglow in wallowed world’s dead center surmise. The gray cracking desert earth around seeming to resonate as the organism is snapped from the stem. Well here we are in a vast nowhere again, becoming blended in with the surrounding chaos of sameness. Held-in esprit divulging nudge to the heart’s sway. Crude beams of the orcish miasma cave cracking at the voice of God as it speaks into its mouth and says, “WHO DO YOU THINK PUT THE GRAY TO THE GRAY?” And I a lonely traveler by watched as it happened and lost my countenance.
Something Important. In the house I grew up in, there were ghosts. One would shift in the mirrors. Another would portray our mom and walk downstairs. There was a quiet kind of character to that house. I didn’t know what was going on. I was far too young. But I remember phases. In hindsight, I grew up very fast—as all things seems to go in hindsight. I remember key components of sacred core memories. I remember tadpoles vortexing in an industrial bucket in a dimly lit garage on a gloomy day. I remember the black boulder of a full trash bag being shoved into a bog, floating away. ¶ To feel so connected and then suddenly very gross and strange.
These are little imprints on an ancient stone. These are respirating Oh-Jeezes praying quiet prayers for life. Coming into being as newborns. Growing up and getting old. Setting their suns as old proverbs praying old prayers. Getting too fragile to walk. Too wise to speak. And lost in them somewhere the music of a love-nostalgia only they can hear. Each one’s soul’s song a different song. (Eye erupting into grays and blues on acid: … “Pull me. Pull me apart on your way home. Take me. Take me apart but put me back ultimately. I want. I want a soul’s sail; sail me to the moon. I know. I know I’m not there right now, but maybe soon.”) Diffident sidewise upward list. ¶ They all these spirits in gold do … flock to my spirit’s waveform like cherry pigeons to a power line; bring up the soul with its coat its own onus. I become split some in the attempt to understand what is going on, and so sometimes I don’t really try at all to understand. We peach rings in a plastic bag cell ourselves and taste purer sugars. Heaven’s wed the abstract overbearing owner of book in the light. Arudah’s head coming through a wormhole in space and time peering back at me over a shadow of lime. Drink in my Diet Mtn Dew can letting go now I wish was alcohol. Trembled sirens waving me off my way. Skillful in nonsense. What does it matter? Everything. Everything depends on it. In some way, we all fall. None of it makes sense, and that is fine also.
All in marvelous overload. In the zone: where fluid thought manifests as symbolic objects working in cohesion to elucidate a creative system. We let you go and you’re gone now. What is the object? Oh hold on hold on now. We are the system. Wait wait do not go. Do not go. Light, I need you.