666
that's the number of the beast,
not in the least.
fight or flight.
i wish i knew how to react
and not betray my loathsomeness.
a fish gasps for oxygen when it's all around,
just because it's not in the form it's used to.
things become clear and refined when i think of this from time to time
and that all castles made of sand are washed away eventually,
the castles, and the prisons. all washed away by hugeness and routine.
the great, and the small.
the good, and the bad.
in time, all is dust.
the echoes of words fade in darkness,
and that's okay.
our songs will all be silenced.
what of it?
go on singing.
i wish i knew how to react
and not betray my loathsomeness.
a fish gasps for oxygen when it's all around,
just because it's not in the form it's used to.
things become clear and refined when i think of this from time to time
and that all castles made of sand are washed away eventually,
the castles, and the prisons. all washed away by hugeness and routine.
the great, and the small.
the good, and the bad.
in time, all is dust.
the echoes of words fade in darkness,
and that's okay.
our songs will all be silenced.
what of it?
go on singing.
your song, it fills the air
in a giant open room where
a statue hides it's derriere,
bashful.
sometimes i wish that i was there
at other times i don't
a part of me thinks that in a million years i'll still think about you
a part of me thinks that i won't.
but, in the middle,
it's a riddle with which i play,
not knowing what to say,
ruing every day
that goes by.
and these thoughts, the ones that i avoid avoiding,
tend to disappear in obtuse awareness
of your presence, which i'm in,
and my excuses are growing thin.
you're a beaut',
you're acute.
you're astute.
in the furrows of the mountainside
there is a hermit wand'ring,
wond'ring,
and down he comes, amidst the thundering,
to do his blundering, which he enjoys.
in a giant open room where
a statue hides it's derriere,
bashful.
sometimes i wish that i was there
at other times i don't
a part of me thinks that in a million years i'll still think about you
a part of me thinks that i won't.
but, in the middle,
it's a riddle with which i play,
not knowing what to say,
ruing every day
that goes by.
and these thoughts, the ones that i avoid avoiding,
tend to disappear in obtuse awareness
of your presence, which i'm in,
and my excuses are growing thin.
you're a beaut',
you're acute.
you're astute.
in the furrows of the mountainside
there is a hermit wand'ring,
wond'ring,
and down he comes, amidst the thundering,
to do his blundering, which he enjoys.
baby, let me follow you down
ragged, muffled, strangled, weak.
carthorse.
kite flies overhead,
down here wafts the smell of dead.
high voltage piercing stare,
a defibrillator in reverse.
carthorse.
kite flies overhead,
down here wafts the smell of dead.
high voltage piercing stare,
a defibrillator in reverse.
I'm embarrassed, man, to have all these Post-its.
Once, my attempt at asking a girl out was described to me, in retrospect, as specifically "not a debacle... yet."
Cold Pastoral! was Keats' way of saying "Holy Shit!"
You don't have to report to me, Helen.
Please, sit down.
Please, Please,
Bring them here.
I swear to God...
Cold Pastoral!
Once, my attempt at asking a girl out was described to me, in retrospect, as specifically "not a debacle... yet."
Cold Pastoral! was Keats' way of saying "Holy Shit!"
You don't have to report to me, Helen.
Please, sit down.
Please, Please,
Bring them here.
I swear to God...
Cold Pastoral!
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