breathtest
04-24-2009, 02:17 PM
Gazing out passively at brick walls and Lego people
I realise that now is the time for change
Smelling of wine and other substances I stroll through my temporary home town
The gravel beneath my feet feels different from before
And the air is rougher against my face and eyes
And things hover and move around my head, diluting the oxygen
And languid faces in the windows stare at the roads and will continue to do so until they feel their minds fabricating life once more
And oak trees with balls of deep light embedded in the leaves moan at the weight of their existence
I maunder quietly to myself in the middle of the road, contemplating some kind of faith
And not really understanding it, put off by the hypnotic rhythm of the white lines
The engravings made by the stones as if by Gods
The breath of wind that explores me
The deep relief of solitary wanderings in the night, illuminated by street lamps
Pools of light on industrial walkways
Grass diffusing into mud in front of my eyes
Dark cemetery outlines against the fence in the distance
And deep grooves under my eyes that I can feel with my fingertips
And crude coffee smell drifting through the misted darkness
All of this appears naked and merciless before iconoclasm
A fragment of some fluid hyoscine dream that attacks righteous rulers
And multiplies in vermillion ecstasy or grows wild and deep beneath metal complexes in heavenly scouring
And if you do change
I will be waiting in a bed of deep narcissus considering Lynch
I realise that now is the time for change
Smelling of wine and other substances I stroll through my temporary home town
The gravel beneath my feet feels different from before
And the air is rougher against my face and eyes
And things hover and move around my head, diluting the oxygen
And languid faces in the windows stare at the roads and will continue to do so until they feel their minds fabricating life once more
And oak trees with balls of deep light embedded in the leaves moan at the weight of their existence
I maunder quietly to myself in the middle of the road, contemplating some kind of faith
And not really understanding it, put off by the hypnotic rhythm of the white lines
The engravings made by the stones as if by Gods
The breath of wind that explores me
The deep relief of solitary wanderings in the night, illuminated by street lamps
Pools of light on industrial walkways
Grass diffusing into mud in front of my eyes
Dark cemetery outlines against the fence in the distance
And deep grooves under my eyes that I can feel with my fingertips
And crude coffee smell drifting through the misted darkness
All of this appears naked and merciless before iconoclasm
A fragment of some fluid hyoscine dream that attacks righteous rulers
And multiplies in vermillion ecstasy or grows wild and deep beneath metal complexes in heavenly scouring
And if you do change
I will be waiting in a bed of deep narcissus considering Lynch