Vex0r

Crestfallen weak as the wake of the tepid trembling glass breaking over the sand. How hard it is To Treasure smiles in a sweaty bath of fear, or— or to honour vows recall sins haul prayers from our faded minds. To turn in such faint madness is to discover a web of feet and hands, disjointed, discombobulated, unable to be grasped in supplication or remorse (The household names have gone now). Leaden, with half-dead voices or none at all— unbending under the sky's great agony unsalted wounds of the spirit— fingers clumsily find fellows and hold. Hold as the soreness stretches. Unyielding. Unbend.

Let us not follow philosophers, not their voices nor their script. Philosophy is a path we must walk upon ourselves, discipline in every step.

memories... are slightly, (or mightily), built upon as time goes by; that's what we do with what we did. whether those recollections have collected added details along the way, we often do not know - ourselves. these things don't make those things less treasured - no, not less, but more. tales are told, and in their telling, (in)advertant lies cause normal swelling. llp - dec'09 - dA

you feel compelled to stare and salivate. stop. enough. you touch me, with sticky fingers and desperate eyes. i'm disgusted, cannot get away. this is the line. this is the deep rooted place, where my soul, my roots, my heart resides. and you may not enter here. you stranger. you thief, who takes what is not offered. do not presume to rub yourself all over me, size me up and take my measure. i am not for your pleasure. i am here to bask in the glow of my own companionship, to light the flame of oblivion and dance inside the ocean of release, floating through space and time untouched by limitation and restriction. i am a primal being,

December dusk in Lawrence; longest night of the year and lights go on above the blackened road. Children's shrieks - praises to the sun god - dwindle, are replaced by the murmur of engines revving on the highway just one block over. My mother is finally dead. In the deepening blue of night, I wonder why I am still there.  It has been years, but the smell of the place – old cigarettes and Irish coffee – arrests me.  A stucco painting of the Holy Spirit represented by flames atop the Disciples' heads looms on the wall in the foyer. I remember the sting of the hardened plastic spatula, the one with holes in the flat en