Perfection of a Cry

I dunno, noise and action, products of duality, the like and likeness to left and right, good and bad. Why is it a fight between Devil and God when man himself produces.

So breathing here as always, I come to conclusions I am weak, through seeking desires of ego, I failed myself. These reaches like a hand grasping out, wanting satisfaction, from these, items, these visuals, noises, the consumer is me, the ego the buyer, the needs out there in produce.

Should I strip myself of all medals, objects removed, claiming solid needs of solid things? Would it be enough to remind me, the fools continue on ahead, at parties laughing and joyous over bread.

I choke and wheeze at knowing, a slight trap, a non gold, a non light. I am killing my mind slow, trapping myself in diction, classified as cultures that created these object I am.

Chat Room Addicts

I realised today, just now, there ain’t much to keep me, coming back, every day. From what I see there is much more to life than the dysfunctions I witness. A monk would probably say to me, why go there. Why would you go to a bar if you don’t drink? Why be around dysfunctional people if you want to not be dysfunctional? The stories I hear over the years are always of harm. Where people get even violently maimed by people they trust.

I go back like always because I am weak. I can’t survive without something there. The drama is enough to cure my boredom, the boredom of myself. Though every day I read more and more things that make me want to be there less. So few people I meet actually have anything to offer. It is just like a drunken party, the ego’s locate a hero. The stories without much point and laughter over the stupidest things.

I really think it is whats holding me back. This addiction to drama. I think of Rumi, what he says, he has no desire for it.

Morning that Told

For fighting against the hero worship, the capitalist successes, you flood into straight jackets so fluid, breaking out in fits knowing little. It is not even money that drives you, not crazy, not insane, not wanting a gun to protect yourself, its is the knowing that there may be something else to know.

You can sit quite peacefully, puffing along, stroking one down for sleep, though keep the strain of red eyes, far into the days heats. The Suns of Alpha Centauri may live a planet like this, though how can you decide how to live, if thrown there by chance and guilt.

So put down your pipe addict, think your clattering trash is afoot, a mouth that hails more than a rap, a broom to sweep the rubbish, not hatred for success. Success is more than a pocket for crack, the ceiling will crack one day, the mirror too and then you’ll become me.

Coffee and crows and parrots and Porsches, reading from hook and book, like eyes that fall heavy, still red, a dick that wont speak. The decision for granted, taken, like a lover bored, makes sense in a quiet moment, that fans need to respond. The hours will go and die, like any flesh, my hand just does the thing it knows, my mouth and mind behind it, pushing on through this hurt.