ripple in the fabric of equilibrium

being ripped apart. stellar talcum powder courses through fatigued veins is this the final hit the tide ebbs and then surges again solitude has become an all too welcome companion fingers unable to move properly groping for the next landing closed eyes ten blind mice on a keyboard of incertitude where is it all seeping away to the walls are crumbling time is an inpatient constructor immolates the house while the residents awaken slowly to the searing flames the pot comes to a boil and lemon grass galanga lime leaves vent their subtle fumes the lamp has been rubbed the genie is immersed in a lack of wishes to grant and the effervescent cloud slowly dissolves into a shape of a hapless figure looking forlorn and bewildered direction lost he is helpless he says nothing to be done the conclusion forgone sit back and relax lean back into the rhythm of the wind allow it to throw you about and let it settle you will be able to pick up your pestle find your mortar add the spices and brew your curry

tripping through the morning wealth of early winter light bewildered by earphones blaring destructive yet releasing powder down by aural canal the ships pass through slowly in imaginationland where past and present and possibilities coalesce into a perpetual sentiment of perfection that is only slightly dented by the scent of last night's sweet-sweet rot of long fallen autumn leaves if there is an oblivion-like bliss i am edging towards it

one rarely ventures here. mind you i don't mind the lack of comments it reflects the serenity of sitting in my kitchen a grass-alabaster-wood cell inmates make grog and tea and the women do come and go poetically dreaming about a true michelangelo the actual archangel wrapped in a non existent glittering spasm of rights and perfections while all the while it just me living in my carbon based ambient light shot little life loneliness permeates everything the walls sweat a thin shiny sheen of moisture exertion to limit solitude will it be a hundred years of will something inside give this race another chance on earth i deserve it but i have yet to find it so many chances have rolled down the hill the snow is heavier by the year the balls roll quicker grow heavier the trees wilt away rumbling hillside quaking creatures in the forest freedom has reared its ugly-ugly head having let go of the last vine i knew well enough to trust there is nothing but me and an extremely long rough rambling road a narrow murky path that leads me to me

is it the beginning or the mid-life chrisis of an alcoholic when one frolics home through ample fields of young university adolescent grain in a stupor of alcohol induced post-marriage (en francais s'il vous plait) fumes rummaging through a mind lost in mink coated fatigue? the question today is whether i am an alcoholic the rather unsubtle joy at finding a treasure trove of a not-quite-half-empty whiskeybottle on my kitchen counter throws me into extasy and agony the realisation lingers and like a gentle thingling sensation upends itself rears its ugly head and desperation leaves me through a limbo of unrequited dismal abhorrence of all that is rigid and all that is flexible. help me find through paths intwined with regal attire the truth of the rough peasent that sows and thus reaps only what he is able to. run around the cable to the other end, unplug the nut that squirrel-lord-o-terror holds in his arms. clamps like steel surround the sound lurks like an evil gory detail. intestinal gorges and deep-deep backside rivers course through me...