Wednesday length

I also make films so yknow, check the anchorage playlist if you want

I lay back in my bedrock of unjustified narcissism, thinking back to my days as the king of stomping ground, a mighty general, lungs of steel and an ox's determined gaze. now I drown in a flood of my ruffled feathers acting as if it gives me some kind of, some kind of. a timid skeleton of China and origami lays in the agonisingly embracing waters of my own prison of comfort. some kind of, some kind of... a cloud of shit hangs over every empty promise of returning to that stay, the buzzing of the flies convincing me to remain in a torrent of pity and self hatred. among my other cats in the other alleys of this supposed second home I can delude myself, thinking I am same old friend who galloped through city at night and forest in dreams, now I once again return to my aquatic crutch, my fake winter or, or some kind of, some kind of... I come to the awakening that my life has become and unending, unanswered some kind of, some kind of, some kind of...something.

living a fractured life of home and home, I find that my nostalgic pangs were stirred from the pot of days supposed superior. with no regards however, isolation allows me a slight defence against my longing for what's done, returning newly shed, with new plating and fresh lavender tinted eyes. the thrill of fear never escapes me along this , this wooded eden, every miniscule sound amplified through a lens of "tonight is the night I am end". feathers ruffle amongst the dying branches with the same shadowy thoughts as I, as the breeze dances with the used narcotics on the ground. this, I remind myself, is why my fears are not unfounded , an unseen flock of burnt out veins and needle holes that are always at my heels, seldom having seen them. my fear contorts to fury as I realise that my harem of thought has been decimated and taken over by those who don't bear the same ardour for my fortress, my courtyard . my unrealistic standards aside, I oft forget that whilst I may have a memorial bond with the bark, to it I am simply another mound of flesh that likens myself as more important than I am. pardon my French but the sky is beautiful tonight, deep apologies for my lapse in complexity but sometimes simple, and vague, and stark are the only words that scutter through my lips. yes beautiful, I like the sound of that. given the rotation of my visits a faint hoot or growl are to be expected , nocturn allowing her children their time in the moons light, a sense of place that avoids me. I ramble, I ramble as I do I ramble , it seems my stream diverts and bends far too often for others to follow . I hope at the very least that my self Important words at least marry you with something you darent think about, feelings not of black and white, their starkness affording us some form of comfort, but that of grey, a middle ground as yet unexplored, a universe of Mellon collie and lethargy that I, as you, shall carve a shelter into. I realise that I am nomad, I am wanderer. I found my place in lack of place, and sweet simple beauty in the corpses of my loved ones.

a subtle twist of the knife is this, returning to the sephulcure of skin I once shed. its character ever present however, the brown murk flowing until it mates with the sound of industry. the now green wood matching the emerald shades of the trees from which they were birthed. a prisoner unto itself, caged in unjustified fury. while the river catches my ear and I strive to stay faithful to its calm, every footstep from the unappreciative reminds me if its disconnect. a vicious equilibrium is this, a fury of calm and anger twisting away within my walls. but with one precious moment, isolated and caught in my own mind, I am brought back to times happier. the waves caress me with its tender sounds, shrouding me from the blades of muscle that strive to push me further from my zen. a cruel twist of the knife in this, in this blackened Shangri la, perhaps a spark, a peace, perhaps, perhaps

To god is Satan is ac and I, I'd like to make this some sort of nirvana, or paradise or god forbid a personal narrative harem. From my lips to the lips of others, A proverbial stream of consciousness that hits me like the flood of pretention that I've made for myself. All self inflicted of course, I cant deny that it's a psychological suicide attempt, But the feeling of peach fuzz underneath my finger nails to have a chance of someone sharing my gaze. If a poet I am then more fool me, An inbred language of metaphor children used to bypass a, shall we say, intellectual divide. But if I poet i am then I'll be honest as, well as one human can be in the grips of herbic lobotomy. Enjoy these non structured etchings of this maddened sheep shagger and we can find our way to being on the same page.