butfuck it, dude, let's go bowlingHmm.So much has happened.I'm going to Prague, it seems, and Poland. Right after I get back from tripping around California with boardies.I'm either really impulsive and fun, or a retard with no self control.Answers on a post card please....
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Open eyes can see as it all floats far awayThough denial runs deep even in the face of self-realizationStanding still in hopes that a small part will lingerVisions of yesterday's happiness shade today's shameDifferent hues can tighten the squeezeSmall bits of who you thought you were run outLost in the vast nothingness that has taken holdTwisted views of reality skew the mind against youIn a good moment there is peaceToo quickly forgotten, too quickly lostSearching to find a shortcut back to who you want to beRealizing in darkness that maybe, that never existedWondering if in this so-called truth lies the reality of othersIs this who you are?Is this who they see?You can choose to live in the worst thoughts of you,Or believe in the best version of yourself
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Tie-dyed psychedelic swirling thoughtsMid-day nightmares tied in knotsJagged edges of broken mindsUntamed beauty so unkindHoney sweet and sappy placesCharcoal eyes on empty facesInside ugly seeps through perfectionBlocking daylights warm reflectionChasing nothing standing stillRaining brimstone breaks the willHeld fast in place by testimonyIndecipherable real or phonyUndependable instincts and cloudy visionInhibits any and all decisionsHand-mixed daydreams light and creamyCandy coated happiness, all is dreamy
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Weight of the worldBroken shoulders and cracked spinesLong run consequencesShort run blissWhat's right for nowOr what's right for laterGood for oneOr good for othersRubber arms cannot balance the sidesToday's frustration swallows tomorrowDelinquent youthIntolerant with ageRules or freedomIs there freedom within the rulesIs tomorrow forever tainted by mistakes from todayPerhaps tomorrow is tainted by things further in the pastThen again, could that be where true liberty liesLetting go of bad choicesLiving with the bed you made by accidentDo accidents really existIs there even a pathMistakes that matter need not be ones ownBuried under a world of nothingnessIt matters to no one but you
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LOS TEMAS ALUCINATORIOS DE LA MITOLOGÍA, EN EL REINO DE LOS SENTIMIENTOS, SON FEROCES CANIBALES COMO UNA MANTIS RELIGIOSA.......PRÓTESIS PARA LAS MIRADAS QUE SE ESCONDEN, LOCA MANIQUÍ, LOCA DE REMATE, TUS PALABRAS DESTRUIDAS VAN ROIDAS Y DESCUARTIZADAS, NO PIERDAS TIEMPO CON LAS LOCAS EPIDÉRMICAS, SUS ALFILERES SERAN REPARTIDOS POR EL CUELLO DEL ASNO Y CON SU SOMBRA FIGURA RADIOGRÁFICA DEFORME SERA MUTILADA, MIENTRAS LAS CENICIENTAS CONTINÚAN ESCUPIENDO ENFERMEDADES Y ALMORZANDO MANJARES SANGUÍNEOS DE ALFILERES QUE SE RETUERCEN EN EL ESÓFAGO APILADAS UNAS TRAS OTRAS, PARA LA DULCE SANGRE, MÁS DULCE QUE LA MIEL, CON UN LÁTIGO QUE SE ESPARCE ENTRE CEMENTERIOS DE AGUJAS, O PALETAS SIN COLOR. ERÓTICAS Y FEAS, ESTÉTICAS Y DIVINAS, MUERTES Y BELLEZAS, MISTERIOS REPULSIVOS QUE OPTAN POR UN SILENCIO BUSCANDO GUANTES PARA AHORCARSE, GOLPES CONTRA LA PARED, SANGRE ESCURRIENDO BOCA ARRIBA, DELEITE DE LA ANTIGRAVEDAD, MONUMENTO ERIGIDO Y ENDURECIDO POR ENTRE LAS CABEZAS QUE YACEN CORTADAS EN UN TIEMPO Y UN ESPACIO TODAS CON MIRADAS BLANCAS E INOCENTES.BEBIENDO COPAS QUE DESTILAN LÍQUIDOS ESQUELÉTICOS POR ENTRE LOS PECHOS Y LOS GLÚTEOS DE NINFAS, SURGEN MILLARES DE SERES EN CUATRO PATAS, CON LENGUAS IMPULSIVAS, MOMIAS REBOZADAS CON SU PROPIA PIEL CON ANSIOSOS OJOS CRISTALINOS Y REBOZANTES DE HOSTIAS GENITALES, PLETÓRICAS DE UNA ANGUSTIA INFANTIL QUE HACEN RESALTAR EL ROSTRO AMARGO Y DOLOROSO. EN UN BOLSILLO ROTO DEJAN ESCURRIR LOS MIEDOS INCONCLUSOS ABATIDAS Y ENTRELAZADAS POR VENAS INCHADAS DE GRAVIDA ENTRE LA DEMENCIA Y EL SUEÑO...ENCIERRO MONASTÉRICO DE CEREBROS ENROLLADOS Y ARROLLADOS DE ALEGORÍAS DEMENTES SIN RAZÓN O CAUSA QUE JUSTIFIQUE LA HISTERIA DE ESTAS IMAGENES DE HEMBRAS VELLOSAS QUE SUEÑAN ESTAR SIEMPRE AMARRADAS AL FÁLICO MONUMENTO DIGNO DE SUS DESEOS, MIENTRAS EN SOMBRA CATÁRTICA DE ATARDECERES SIGUEN SIENDO DEVORADAS...
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I'm saving you in that kiss. I'm dying in this bliss, so as I watch you walk away from me I stand alone forsaken to myself and forever painted in anguish; there to stand frozen in pain there between that square frame, existing only for that moment, I hold it all in waiting for it to end but forge only the memories that will always stay painted, only to ever be. I'm saving your kiss inside this painted abyss only for it to exist as a moment of pure confliction, only so these eyes of mine can always say "I miss you" as they reminsce all the painful hurt. So I'm saving you in that kiss as I forever watch you walk away from me, forever painted in this painful anguish.
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SPINNING AWAYThis story is about a windmill called William.Not a windmill . . .
or a windmill . . .
but a WINDMILL, a big, huge, shiny, white, con-tem-po-ra-ry WINDMILL.
And he stood on a headland where he could see the sea.
Which was sometimes blue and sometimes grey and sometimes . . .when the wind was in a temper or wanting to show off . . . then the sea was black.Black with wiggles of white surf scurrying all over.On such day of black sky and white wiggles, the windmills on the cliff top, William and his friends, were turning steadily, ploughing the wind, harvesting its strength. William faced the wind and carved it - slicing through it, calmly, steadily.On calm calm summer days - like this was not - the windmills were locked off.They stood, silent giants waiting, waiting for the wind to welcome the wind back.On wild, snarling days in winter, the windmills were turned off - too strong a wind would damage them.But on this day, someone, somewhere, f o r g o t.F o r g o t to turn and lock the windmills off.The wind blew harder and harder:The windmills whirled faster and faster. Faster and faster. C R A C K. The herd of windmills snapped free and went spinning away, higher and higher into the black sky till they were nothing more than dots of white against the cloudsThey were never seen again. Somewhere that herd of spinning, excited windmills are spinning around forever free, charging through space like wild, white horses, wide arms turning, cliff-top home forgotten.You can see where they used to stand. When you're walking on the cliffs and find flat concrete bases, metal bolts rusting, you'll know that's where William used to stand, patiently collecting the wind.When you look up and see white specks drifting towards the clouds you might be seeing a flock of seagulls,but you might be seeing a flock of free windmills: William and friends.Shout Hello!wendy cook
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