Sometimes Anhedonic.

I wish I was strewn across a city. My organ linings would make for fine christmas lights, as the light refracted and transformed Leibniz would be proud of each floating droplet, scarlet meteors wandering the city streets expanding as they hit the ground, back into infinity, rejecting the cosmos, running into the thick of it all. This midsummer madness forgets who we were and makes elements, once again, of us all.

I wish I was strewn across a city my organ linings would make for fine christmas lights as the light refracted and transformed Leibniz would be proud of each floating droplet scarlet meteors wandering the city streets expanding as they hit the ground back into infinity rejecting the cosmos running into the thick of it all this midsummer madness forgets who we were and makes elements once again of us all

i wish i was strewn across a city
my organ linings would make for fine christmas lights
as the light refracted and transformed
leibniz would be proud
of each floating droplet
scarlet meteors wandering the city streets
expanding as they hit the ground
back into infinity, rejecting the cosmos
running into the thick of it all
this midsummer madness
forgets who we were
and makes elements once again
of us all

Bio-logic.

Sometimes when I am under the pins and tragic needles of some psychotomimetic entity I forget my tenure. The tenure, that is, that comes with occupying space, being part of the cosmos is just as easily forgotten when the sea inside rises like a malady; the all-encompassing importance of being, the proud tone one takes when announcing that magnificent proprietary pronoun dulls and withers like a somber smile. Waves pour and drag my consciousness away and on rainy nights I feel as if I was bold enough to look at the measureless void of space that I too would become translucent stars floating beneath my feet. I carve my grave with hands of gossamer and stretch my fingers into infinity, then I remember that I was and am being, and how little that really means, everything merges with the night and for a few brief moments there is respite. I no longer feel the frenzied plea of my atoms, the particles are no longer particular, and then I feel my hand waking, a sore mechanism in place to remind me that I am still here and for all intents and purposes the relative conclusion is that it is still happening and, once again, how little that really means. Tenure is a loveless phantom that raps and beats at the doors of perception, I turn away from it from time to time to look at the sea of matter that lays beside and within me.

General Semantics.

Few people will ever know you for who you really are and even fewer still will appreciate that person.

It's all just general semantics to them.

Learn'd astronomer, wherefore art thou?

I have been, for all intents and purposes, completely unproductive as of late. I fear I may be transforming into the ghost of the universe, the lonesome neutrino, with my radioactive struggle to interject myself amongst the myriad of elements drifting afloat these spatial planes. We are one and the same, my hollow head falls through the Earth, there is no longer a turgid desire to escape my own prison, all this wasted geometry is already enough to drive a man intangible. All we are is silence, an unbounded whisper flowing steadily through the cosmos, you may reach out and feel nothing, not knowing that all you wanted was to feel the light caress of the wind as it playfully whips the breadth of your fingers.
It is most fortunate then that we occupy less space now than a drop of air.

From every which way there is.

There is much to discuss for you and I, once the week or perhaps the month dies down we will sit and talk.

Maybe over cups of cyanide.