Meandering feet fall between the scent of wildflowers and moss, deeper into the mountain side this long trail winds. Water courses on a ceaseless tract towards the valley, runs furiously far below where the air is cooler and the sun rains its heat against the rapids.
I’m looking for a flow to spew, to vomit pained fire in words and lyrical nonsense, drench virtual paper in a cascade of feeling, wishing for the release of a moment where my fingertips press onto keys melded into an outpouring of something greater than myself. I’m looking for a rhythm and a cadence, and empty hollow to rest my eyes and heart within where my brain can’t intrude or interrupt where the language is something not of word but made of a noise that comes from deeper down primal and totally absent of definition. I’m looking for a tapping of keys that harmonizes with my feelings and that calms waters boiling over with discontent where monsters lurk and playful creatures breathe imagination as though it were the purest of air carefree in their joy and hungers contented to be their own masters and demanding nothing from anyone. I’m shaking the trees of logic and thought demanding that they un-fucking-root and get on with the business of dying so that chaos can wash over me as a wind of compassion letting me know that the madness is so very real that anything else was a facade and an illusion that its okay and I’ve come home to rest where I belong. I’m lacing myself with poisons to calm the nerves incinerating the memories of dreams never to be realized in pools of chemical passivity bleeding oil into my disquiet shores where the glass and sand are never polished and always cut though they shine like diamonds to lure you in. I’m hunting for a flow, that special moment when time collapses on itself and there is oneness understanding, immutable confidence, and a distant stare connection to more, recognition and awareness, centered peace, consolidated thoughts, pacified emotions, acceptance, and satisfaction. I’m looking for a flow, one that tells me loneliness is temporary, and that the universe is there in all its infinity and splendor ready to skull fuck me back into joy when it feels fit that reminds me there’s no point sulking and being miserable this is the human condition in all its shit stained raimants and that I could be grateful for the ability and opportunity to experience it. I’m looking for a flow, but right now I’m just writing, and there’s no flow to be found.
John Lee Hooker says whiskey and women, the blues man before asks for another pint. Pour me a tall glass of that liquid summer down the hatch and off into the night. Pounding embers of wisdom shed into fluid form its time to get wasted to the tune of a misfire and the sobbing caterwauls of mans plight. Joy measured into shared company is compounded misery dissipates in that carefree state. . Spider Robinson says that Callahan’s is the cure that telepathic understanding would make us pure. Three shots of jack and the curtains reveal magic bullets in glass containers of sin. Esoteric breakdown of barricades sitting strong imagining the beauty in words as music hits the song. Dusty lungs coughing out something foul to the satisfaction of another cigarette horked down sitting numb eyed in a daze that seems to follow. Chest sits warm in dispassionate easy grace somber living never gets you to these places never breathing deep enough to indulge in phantom chases. Down memory lane and into the brambles a stumbling mess of skull fucked cobwebs and woven disasters of recollection branches. Drop those spiders on my spirit and proud face its not for nothing that they call it a sad display. But here I’ll sit until the noonday sun calls out my moon tanned skin for daytime fun. Polish the bottle child and don’t leave a drop there’s a ride to be ridden this evening, no conductor to guide us and no idea where it stops.
Witticism fades on dribble soaked lips caught halfway between quip and piss poor joke, snagged in realization that the statement is not desired. Flagrant display following an ineffectual attempt to display the degree of empathy passed across, mirror the affection and nurturing that is so foreign. Scrub out those Golems whispering in thunderous tones where they sit perched atop your clay built heart you’ve deluded yourself into believing beats so strongly. Open yourself to a differing of feelings, a roughshod pillaging of your isolated innocence protecting you as thistles would from the harm beyond.
Detest me. Prevent me. Direct me. Understand this isn’t because I love the control, tt’s because I’m comfortable under thumb. Glassed over with your capable patrols, I dream of places where you can’t come. Starken my blistered eyelids into black, soothing my hopeless windows into life. Border my shutters with metal as a rack, twist out the snips and set them on my strife. I’d adore you in a thousand ways, until the sun melted skin to butter. I”ll adore you for a million days, until you burn my offerings for another. Supplant me. Scrub me. Deviate me. A love song played on sickly notes, I’d choke the lies out as they die in my throat. Play fragrant music that offends the nerves, disturb the inoculated innocence I sought to preserve. Wrap on tightly around the collar, building up bricks laid as cannon fodder. Sing back the rhymes I hope will carry through, but it’s all waste and wasteland even to you. Describe me. Vilify me. Sharpen me. A knife edge on razors surface, culls back the meat so plentiful with purpose. Strips back the layers of beautiful sin, exposes righteously the soul within. Expounding virtuous betrayals, never to be found despite the trails. Leave me. Spit me. Vomit me. I was never what was good for you, and now I’ll live marred forever, lost in this lonely zoo.
A personal inspiration/muse of mine is Old Punk with RamJet Poetry and an editor at Sudden Denouement. His work is often raw as hell with a clear demand for the words to be spewed, there’s emotion behind them. I’d encourage you to check his work out and give him some richly deserved love.