scriptum tremens
11.22.2003
laidcorpseland
I’m feeling quite awake now. After the born issue all the lights seem to suffer of a magnificent distortion within their own orbits.
The bodies of all surrounding lands urge in screams over my wasted skin, dyed in red scents of boredom.
Those little flies that frenetically flew over my living corpse are now scared of their own smell, amused in their little life windows, hoping some day one of them will surpass the annoying stratosphere caste upon such unfortunate fates.
When the looks of some humans stroke the sense of an eye of mine, disappointing all the hopes I had while in my dead sleep, a sudden freeze took over the small mind of my winding sex. All was lost to the futility of the till now unbroken, virgin desire.
Standing up, removing the silver dagger from my transparent chest, the walk started towards the white eastern countries, where the thoughts of cold blue desert sands were a remote but possible vision.
Passing by the lost towns of North I saw a million thousands lost spirits wandering, stopping without previous notice on the dark corners filth with greed and smelly illusions. There were no mirrors, no face to face staring was allowed to no creature. The trees anxiously sweated, and their tears were the only supply of nutrients. Grey tears they were.
But I’m feeling quite awake right now, with backhead thoughts almost reaching the fronthead horizon line. Listening to this unquietude I sense some perversity in the lost way of the thing to be. Young travellers lost on the way to peace traverse my own way. All of them are devoured by my thirsty tongue, tasted piece by peace by my unpeaceful sex mouth. Have anyone noted the autumn leaves when the passionate yellow wind scatters its demons by all the lands of the hemisphere? Dreadful moves they are, full of lust and dead promises.
As the neon glows out in the interstices planted all over my undead body, pale shadows grow from the core of my soul of will. The chaotic universe is unwilling to support much longer these demoniac spins sprout from the reflexes born in the desert garden, where the serpent girls hiss wishful words onto the lines of my own poem. Seen are all the lands, all the seas, all the mysterious skies when one single dream takes over what was before awaken. Hence, all conscience is gone with the disturbed flow of vigilance, drown high from the sight loosing abysses that form the close well of my now veiled lachrymal eyes.
My dreamed skin is violated in innumerable ways. Blind sexes masturbate, covering the unholy corpse of a shining crystal layer, while close mouths whisper on cosmic ears the gospels from the never found truths.
Gone is what was I, never to be found again. Something different from everything shouts an unhearable scream of anxiety straight to the cursed eyes, laying their orbits onto these white fire blood lines, asking the simplest question ever made, ever repeated, ever present, never answered.
You hear from your own trickling lips a sudden voice, urging you to the rush of the miniscule life filled temporarily, occupied by your own spirit, telling in silent something rapped up in fear. Those are the words you’ll never understand, for words are they not, no sun will ever show the meaning hidden beneath their shadows.
Swallow in the just unknown forms, digest them, shit them out and swallow them again repeatedly. Repeat never the same path, for circles are just perfect to sight, not to your interior monster.
I’m feeling quite awake again, after loosing myself to my self.
