Tuesday, October 4

Gold Is Cankered, Fine Clothes Eaten By Moths, In Fire Riches And Fortune Will Devour Your Flesh

It could start just about anywhere

but you can be assured that the flames

will be burning hot and bright, white heat

like the end of a poker cast into a beleaguered eye

For the point of entry might be as tragic as it hurts,

the arrival of a foreign reality so distant

but carefully cured because over the years you have

become quite accustomed to the images that have originated

in the external world before they have become

an integrated history that have allowed you to attach meaning to symbols, the golden pitch of a yellow one, someone who is afraid to crash and glow

So allow the flicker, the spark, the gutter, the glimmer

to create uncertain bands of color, disparate patterns in heavy smoke,

alternating witchcraft, signs, tokens, figures and marks excruciating night blindness rushes on the water, a determined sight dogged and tenacious bellowing in variant

anger that could cause inflammation, incendiary back talk a place to chaff at the ulcer and rue, strange events at the killjoy of curmudgeon ample parts in an oscillating assortment persecutions in a wide range with obdurate barbs escalating in random designs jagged dealings that rarely leave any unpleasant vision intact and not turned

If it amounts to flesh it would be one thing but everything seems connected

surging spikes that make indentations in an unrelenting attempt to decipher, illuminate, decode, but what can be made of the chaos as riches and misfortune might be brought to a different truth costly episodes somnolent approaches after bedtime somewhere in the dark yet this is about blinding speed a powdered interpretation of all that has the ability to occupy what might have become musty in the fermented mold The wings of insects can play an important role in breaking the means to effective communication, it might be considered an accompaniment to the ground rules for listless, irrelevant matter but nothing makes sense anymore, grand sensations of an extraordinary kind

Scabs and sores lasting memories as they are remnants of an existence that has come to pass, where order had provided a semblance of unity and the means to understand, in disconnected thoughts there is chaos that will reign, multi-colored sequences radical blends senses of varied intensity that can push the parameters

of a spectral hue no logic, no reason floating upon a rickety skiff just attempting

to find your way across the river in variegated light.