My spirits as if in a dream
are unraveled and lay like string
bobbing loudly in a fishing stream
falling above so longing to reach.
She spirals towards my being
arms outstretch and reaching
faintly caressing her beauty
and lightly loving her meaning
intentionally moving towards me.
My senses are lost
blended and so perfected in her presence
where she so graces my eye I can no longer cry;
as any tears of grief she simply dries.
She doesn't ever stop to understand
because she knows I'd lose anything
to keep coming and enjoy
the ways i can make her dance.
Happily she spins in my hands
grasping for me despite sweaty palms
and long locks of dark beauty
effect my life in ways i dont understand
it's a lovely language we both speak
and such a strange repose
flutters her eyelids
as she gently sleeps.
Thus Spake Thujon
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
My Sweet Mistress Weeps When She Sees Me Work
Dressed from head to toe in all black, I stepped confidently on every crack I encountered on the sidewalk, completely assured that I would not break my mother’s back. Crossing the street without looking either way (the street was a one way anyways) I reached the other side without breaking a stride. The joke was on the sidewalk-my mother was dead.
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
Do Love, Prize, Honour You.
signals sent miss the mark
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
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