edit eight

In this scoop thoughts are inserted.
Through our eyes it gets perverted.
Underneath skies we're relatively fit.
I'll keep repeating our story here.
You just keep reading it, you hear.
Please don't give me any shit.
I like to write in measured couplets.
On the right is where you usurp it.
Below the murk await the dungeons.
The left sentence can be a deft menace
to the attentions of roving eyes
focused to perfection through skies
in front of us. Be wise, curmudgeons.
All the sisters behind thee can't hide
beneath pleasures mistaken for the norm,
behind sorrows for all our tomorrows.
Step from the moving train to the platform.
Don't forget the key that will help you unlock.
Imprint the blossom of your brain upon
the lid of a crowded memory box.
Reflected your face will be upside down.
Open and a mirror may reveal your frown,
red velvet lining will absorb the shock.
The brightest shine won't illumine talks.

And there I went dipping into the spent streams of time with a spilled inkwell for the river source and an old quill for the paddle, a plastic keyboard electronic matrix for the nib to dip into a moving stream of pixels, from here on out I'll be mixing that tape up so to speak about my life, that is, about what I want you to know about my portion of it. In the interest of taking honesty to its furthest limits I've devised a few different angles from which everyone might piece together the story. Really I'll be giving out the important stuff first and the rest will come naturally, I mean we're all human despite living together in the same place, right? Same place, haha -- that's a good one -- Earth is the same place last time we checked -- right -? The point of the matter being simple. No such thing as the same place twice. Don't believe in naughty or nice. Wanna drink wine better make it from rice. The bees are dying from an incorperated heist. You wanna talk robbery. Its called passing the buck. And if you ask me again I won't give a fuck. The reason things stay the same can't be proven. Its like trying to measure a hologram as its woven. Don't talk to me about illusion. I know relativity can be confusing. Einstein postulated imaginary time. I don't even know if he knew it rhymed. My calculations always come out the same. Like there's a refraction coming out of my membrane. A higher distraction I'm too blurry to see sane.
So let me try to get you to understand me. There's an entire universe out there I'm a part of. Stars grow deep in my heart so to speak. Isn't it this way for everyone.

I've given a lot of thought to Books. Here Now Take a look.

fuel to burn a fire at night, or a fire in the daytime too
leaves shaved from tree limbs, and regrowing out through you
doorstops and table levellers, long after midnight revelers
the trimmed fringes of the wilderness, shepherding lost children
bound codas no one is bound to, sounding frozen codices
found knowledge kept for the lost, around a chosen god he sees
silent sentinels protecting oblivion, assigning angels
an industry at whatever the cost, decanting devils
a collection of expostulations, safety lockets
the filing cabinet of dreams, fits in pockets
an endless succession of membranes, diaries for the insane
a countless number of spines, speaking in tongues of the times
litany of titles and bylines, receding into shadow
imprinted stains swallowed by darkness, a mass possession
footnotes of the human brain, circumnavicision
additional remote memory storage, zero emission battery power
life preservers in stormy weather, birds of an emissary's feather

Artefacts assembled with devotional care, sprung up from the very air
distributed throughout every household, too big for a mouse to hold
passed along from hand to hand yet never eroded, in memory recorded
generating multiple copies thus naturally grown, in shop windows shown
command higher value when marked with creator's blood, bandaged
the true race of masters to which humanity is subservient, finest wood
totemic avatars of our exorcised demonology, sprouts of meteor showers
infectious phials of virulent memes, a challenge to correctly gauge
dangerous vessels for unstable dreams, as if written by elves
the batteries of a motherlode of power, shattered into many shards
all of the buildings in the kingdoms of language, written with an axe
the city of Babel itself, sown with murdered fertilizers
towers to be ransacked or guarded, pronounced on landscapes as ruins
patches along our insulation's cracks, the blueprint for many a scheme
our woven fabric of armor, distilled so that no one will harm her
what keeps us safe or vulnerable from attacks, a fortress for children
what sees us peering deeply at them in our dreams, we've left behind

I've given some thought to Dreams. Why don't you see what I mean.

"Tracking along into deepest held nighttime instilled in such distant harmonics the pinprick of gestation wakes up to a sonic awareness of premeditated doom that echoes like thunder throughout all the room and the last thing suspected detonates in the rest as the carbon based immolation molds the statues of ash erected in memorial of the seeds planted fast which escaped through the cracks of the solid rock upon which all the rest settled down on to be lost in due time as their children's children dried out into husks on the plain discovered eventually by distant relatives who sang their song around bonfires crackling up into the starry night sparks launched in defiance of gravity's illusion depending on the perception's confusion which is only to say in a manner of proof that hope is a flower that will always be grown as long as there's soil in which its seeds have been sown so the tilling & telling of this unusual tale is a necessary exercise in weaving this spell so that all those who read it may know quite well there is nothing to worry about so best arise and dispell it at all costs or our very lives are at stake whatever you do don't mistake the message for the means or the other way around because if we fuck it all up our legacy gets run into the ground and buried for ever and all eternity lost all for nothing to swallow and chew and spit out our husks to be dried on the beach and dissolved into nothingness simply out of reach of the evermore circuit only a hand's breadth away a gap far too distant to cross if faith is lost along the way so never forget to remember this dream is always there reminding us clearly a scheme concocted by grandparents wishing well deems passed on hand by mouth by ear that to get there all that's required is each gap be crossed once from father to son or from brother to friend let the chain remain unbroken until the end which is the only illusion worth considering pretend so that this pilgrimage throughout the stars will permanently extend on its unravelling course through a multidimensional gyroscope helix ensigning the very document of space with an imprint registered in reality's fabric that is our mutual duties to face whether together or apart and suffering stigmas applied as decals of a sunlit deterioration, a sort of alchemy of so much more than on the eightth day the sun being sundered from the caustic sky by the bitter vapours poured from the raw throats of industry over the munitious scorched and shattered hill line overlooking a desolate, despairing people milling shoved together in a mob slowly advancing all in the same direction through the twisted corridors of a shining labyrinth of reflected stainless steel razor sharpened on the mills of corporate executive butchers grown in the vats of suburban asphalt and chemical conglomorates concocted in a diabolic stew of an alchemical purification process stretched out for so many generations its original intention lost & twisted into the transubstantiated and wholly transformed resurrected carcass of a flayed bastard muleman offspring of an eviscerated holy whore whose death throe ministrations from her row of lactic teats suckles the donkey saviour into a down syndrome mutant politician elected by the inevitable force of relentless magicks cast upon the descendents of the enemies of Lucifer the fallen one extemporized into the only logical course of action which was to take matters into his own horns so to speak and grab the God by the balls in a simple gesture of karmic balancing delivering a vengeance so purified his untouchable essence is vapourized in a cathartic instant of transformative energy crackling dark matter in an antiseizure of a carnalized coup de etat resulting in the impending uprising of the new order of emblackened power having usurped the stagnating empire of filth and corruption replacing it clean with the victorious new mantle of unprocessed evil uplifting its magnanimous head to dessicate the stain of hypocrisy left from the previous rulers of inbred weakness and replace it with the solid impeccable foundation of stone upon the black forces of eternal entropy worshipped and gathered as a battery charge of pure hatred will draw out the vitality of compassionate enemies rendered impotent from the very power they so pitifully pay homage to," the voice echoed through my head as I awoke up sweating in my bed. What sort of sick dream was that? Something about black fortresses and purified coup de etats resulting in a Luciferian uprising...

Discovered that, when uninstalling old software from your head, remember to begin with those most recently installed and work backwards, like a reverse layercake. Don't foget to empty recycle bin. And you're good as new. Only one hundred and thirty five dollars, billed to your electronic web account. But they'll never get those symantec bits out. Haha I'm just kidding. Our lives are nothing like computer systems, that's a myth. Computer systems merely resemble our lives. Our heads. The way we unmake our beds. And never lie down in them twice. It's not the same bed, it's not the same river, it's not the same head, it's not the same bitterness, it's not the same headdress, it's not the same cleverness, it's not the same anything, it's not the same bling bling, it's not the same corruption, it's not the same eruption, it's not the same consideration, it's not the same alliteration, it's not the same expedition and it's not the same cognition. It's not even the same degree of maintenance that affects the same results or effects. It's not the same anymore. And it can never be the same again. There can never be the same amount of difference. There can never be the same amount of inference. There can never be the same degree of anything. It can never be the same again for everything. We can never be sane again because there is no constant for sanity. We can delve into sanity further and establish the possibility of fair weather. But the clouds might develop to blot out the sunshine that otherwise pronounced the clear outline of our shadows. If these are the conditions in sanity, imagine the conditions without. You can't. Because there is no such thing. As sanity. It's all in our heads like a dream. Or a vanity. Like a scheme. That we planned, you see. Only no scheme ever unfurls as planned. We all know that, deadpan. So what's in a scheme. Nothing but a flowering idea. And we all know what they say about flowers. Flowers have no hope for tomorrow.