MLHForster
03-13-2012, 06:03 PM
barbs on the wire standing erect,
still keeping folk away from folk,
fresh hell of self-perpetuating ideals,
the damned and the maimed,
each wishing for what the other hasn’t got so,
yes, both still wishing.
and as the sky falls I stroll on and around
the other side of
low pathetic fog tickling the back of my neck,
fog in my boots saturating the back of my ankles,
rhythm of the walk driving me on with this and that,
and the others who occupy this area come to shop
stray cats gravitate to this place to die for the penultimate time.
men, they eat the sausages that are served by the man behind the counter,
(he has cooked the same three items of food for a long time)
and as for women, their brains laced with dreams of the promised holiday,
last year,
and the year before
and the year before that
and as far back as they can remember.
Disney land one year, for the children,
but they grew up too fast,
and then it was the sun the sea and the sand so lusted after,
but the children left home,
and so everybody will cease to be,
Disney land will shut down,
and the signifier of micky mouse will diminish returning to an abstracted clutter, or order,
of electromagnetically charged particles laid to rest by the selective atomic nature of history.
becoming atomised,
just as he did,
eventually,
with the subway,
for himself,
I have sat down,
consequently am taking more notice of what it is I am writing,
so am occasionally crossing words out again, and again,
and again I am up and walking, occupying my body so fluidity of mind can endure.
pause.
and the car pool under the bridge looks bruised and beaten,
from many years of entrance and exit,
brought to its knees only to be lifted up,
bought, botoxed up to the edges, straightened out,
and next time it falls into disrepair, maybe,
botox will travel beyond the edges of this tired place,
and a man takes pictures of an office block,
he will undoubtedly forget the pictures and the place and the day and his name,
and I am not certain of the direction I have taken but I have ended up here,
where I am now,
birds mutter to one another,
maybe,
willows do what they do best,
river too does what it does best.
pause.
signs say don’t,
or have a symbol that denotes a similar notion,
and I take to the smaller roads this day,
hills being full of leaves,
of dust,
of those,
of autumn,
of fresh air,
of old air,
stone,
not stone,
accounts and occurrences,
a rush,
maybe,
and a crush,
to death,
with a grin.
truths, falsities from the forgotten count to the begotten count,
both existing then, and/or now,
in hypothetical heretical space and time.
and here we are again back on the ouroboresque pathway,
leading to everywhere-nowhere
and slab to slab to slab to slab to church to shop to church to shop,
is, the new epiphany inducing combination,
the cardiac resurrection you me and everyone has wanted,
needed.(since our first collective consumer consummation)
justso we can carry on hovering through the leaves,
not leaving so much as a foot print,
nor broken vein,
justso we can willingly place the blind fold over our eyes,
and head in the direction we think the fireworks to be,
so we can enter the cathedral and inhale the stale air, (the windows will not open)
so we can stare, as I do now, at the stain glass windows and feel nothing,
so I can look at the confession room opening times,
as I do now:
Thursdays 10am to 2pm
Fridays 2.30pm to 4.00pm
Saturdays 10.30am to 12noon
say three hells, and feel like I need somebody to talk to more than ever.
pause.
and I get a good look up the orifice of divinity of beauty,
and am thankful for the human condition(s),
for the egos, for the insecurities,
for the wrong doings, the right doings and the neutral,
for the misguided for the motivated,
for the passive and the aggressive,
for the bible that sits on the pulpit emitting words that I will surely never hear,
for the saints
and the saints
and the saints
and the saints
and the prayers
and confessions, that, to this second, sit unsent in Hopes inbox,
for the believers,
and the fearful
and the sculptors, painters,candlestick makers,
men that died in construction of the
church of englandminister,
who, when pressed with me asking,
'can I go up there?',
answered
'we always want to go where we can't, don't we.'
and all of her temptations that she longs so lustfully to fulfil,
and my original sin, which I cannot repent nor recall,
(let me know if you remember yours)
and the old woman coughing and walking and shouting
'they spend too much money on this place,
I would've kept it the way it was,
they should be giving it away'
and this thought resonates and echoes beyond my sense range,
until she enters the gift shop,
and her intriguing ideology regarding the church is compromised,
and then she redeems herself,
shouting the previously mentioned statement inside the gift shop.
I talk to her as nobody else has the balls,
she tells me of how her husband,
'who was born and raised here prefers it how it used to be too'
Exeunt old woman.
and, reader, voyeur,
life goes on and off and stagnates,
and the people come and go and forget what it is their eyes have devoured
(and Alan runs through my mind’s eye).
congregation begins to descend,
whilst others with rolled up notes begin to ascend
and the C.O.E stuffed teddy bears sit on the purgatorial shelf,
having been forsaken for the nth time,
I pass the threshold.
pause.
and another crucifixion happens,
again,
and again,
and again,
and so many more times that I am in a state of desensitisation,
and have subsequently divorced the text from the previously attached connotations,
and I couldn't help,
but not help,
or worship the man,
so I didn't,
and I have become fearful,
no longer can I lie with the lion,
if I trip I could fall,
if I swallow I could choke,
if I sleep I could not resurrect,
and if I pray.
pause.
Halt.
Feedback and criticism welcome
still keeping folk away from folk,
fresh hell of self-perpetuating ideals,
the damned and the maimed,
each wishing for what the other hasn’t got so,
yes, both still wishing.
and as the sky falls I stroll on and around
the other side of
low pathetic fog tickling the back of my neck,
fog in my boots saturating the back of my ankles,
rhythm of the walk driving me on with this and that,
and the others who occupy this area come to shop
stray cats gravitate to this place to die for the penultimate time.
men, they eat the sausages that are served by the man behind the counter,
(he has cooked the same three items of food for a long time)
and as for women, their brains laced with dreams of the promised holiday,
last year,
and the year before
and the year before that
and as far back as they can remember.
Disney land one year, for the children,
but they grew up too fast,
and then it was the sun the sea and the sand so lusted after,
but the children left home,
and so everybody will cease to be,
Disney land will shut down,
and the signifier of micky mouse will diminish returning to an abstracted clutter, or order,
of electromagnetically charged particles laid to rest by the selective atomic nature of history.
becoming atomised,
just as he did,
eventually,
with the subway,
for himself,
I have sat down,
consequently am taking more notice of what it is I am writing,
so am occasionally crossing words out again, and again,
and again I am up and walking, occupying my body so fluidity of mind can endure.
pause.
and the car pool under the bridge looks bruised and beaten,
from many years of entrance and exit,
brought to its knees only to be lifted up,
bought, botoxed up to the edges, straightened out,
and next time it falls into disrepair, maybe,
botox will travel beyond the edges of this tired place,
and a man takes pictures of an office block,
he will undoubtedly forget the pictures and the place and the day and his name,
and I am not certain of the direction I have taken but I have ended up here,
where I am now,
birds mutter to one another,
maybe,
willows do what they do best,
river too does what it does best.
pause.
signs say don’t,
or have a symbol that denotes a similar notion,
and I take to the smaller roads this day,
hills being full of leaves,
of dust,
of those,
of autumn,
of fresh air,
of old air,
stone,
not stone,
accounts and occurrences,
a rush,
maybe,
and a crush,
to death,
with a grin.
truths, falsities from the forgotten count to the begotten count,
both existing then, and/or now,
in hypothetical heretical space and time.
and here we are again back on the ouroboresque pathway,
leading to everywhere-nowhere
and slab to slab to slab to slab to church to shop to church to shop,
is, the new epiphany inducing combination,
the cardiac resurrection you me and everyone has wanted,
needed.(since our first collective consumer consummation)
justso we can carry on hovering through the leaves,
not leaving so much as a foot print,
nor broken vein,
justso we can willingly place the blind fold over our eyes,
and head in the direction we think the fireworks to be,
so we can enter the cathedral and inhale the stale air, (the windows will not open)
so we can stare, as I do now, at the stain glass windows and feel nothing,
so I can look at the confession room opening times,
as I do now:
Thursdays 10am to 2pm
Fridays 2.30pm to 4.00pm
Saturdays 10.30am to 12noon
say three hells, and feel like I need somebody to talk to more than ever.
pause.
and I get a good look up the orifice of divinity of beauty,
and am thankful for the human condition(s),
for the egos, for the insecurities,
for the wrong doings, the right doings and the neutral,
for the misguided for the motivated,
for the passive and the aggressive,
for the bible that sits on the pulpit emitting words that I will surely never hear,
for the saints
and the saints
and the saints
and the saints
and the prayers
and confessions, that, to this second, sit unsent in Hopes inbox,
for the believers,
and the fearful
and the sculptors, painters,candlestick makers,
men that died in construction of the
church of englandminister,
who, when pressed with me asking,
'can I go up there?',
answered
'we always want to go where we can't, don't we.'
and all of her temptations that she longs so lustfully to fulfil,
and my original sin, which I cannot repent nor recall,
(let me know if you remember yours)
and the old woman coughing and walking and shouting
'they spend too much money on this place,
I would've kept it the way it was,
they should be giving it away'
and this thought resonates and echoes beyond my sense range,
until she enters the gift shop,
and her intriguing ideology regarding the church is compromised,
and then she redeems herself,
shouting the previously mentioned statement inside the gift shop.
I talk to her as nobody else has the balls,
she tells me of how her husband,
'who was born and raised here prefers it how it used to be too'
Exeunt old woman.
and, reader, voyeur,
life goes on and off and stagnates,
and the people come and go and forget what it is their eyes have devoured
(and Alan runs through my mind’s eye).
congregation begins to descend,
whilst others with rolled up notes begin to ascend
and the C.O.E stuffed teddy bears sit on the purgatorial shelf,
having been forsaken for the nth time,
I pass the threshold.
pause.
and another crucifixion happens,
again,
and again,
and again,
and so many more times that I am in a state of desensitisation,
and have subsequently divorced the text from the previously attached connotations,
and I couldn't help,
but not help,
or worship the man,
so I didn't,
and I have become fearful,
no longer can I lie with the lion,
if I trip I could fall,
if I swallow I could choke,
if I sleep I could not resurrect,
and if I pray.
pause.
Halt.
Feedback and criticism welcome