Metalcolly

Witnessing the excrescence of what you adore is a trying bestowal. Watching as the blood slowly cascades down your arm, knowing full well that it will soon reach that hand, the fingers, and drip, drip upon the floor, drip upon the lifeless soul from which it came. Your thoughts have grown into somewhat regrettable actions. It can leave a bad taste in your mouth, like drinking 6 bourbons then running 10kms. Metal the fuck up and go listen to Vulgar Display of Power.

Climb

How would you react if you saw a man with no eyes walking into a bottomless pit surrounded by laughing miniature trees with malicious toothless faces. Would you first react to the image painted in your direct field of view, would you try understand the predicament that lends itself to such an effigy, would you question the absurdity? I suppose you never fully understand anything. 

There's nothing more beautiful than originality of the human mind when spawned from within,  truly internal manifestation. Conversely, nothing will drag you deeper into the morose depths than finding out that the idea was planted by another. An evil bud sown within, can grow, take over and leave you crippled by it's branches like a derelict barn on the prairie.

Avoiding such pitfalls is an easy game for the strong. You simply must question everything, especially your own mind.  Like a finely tuned of an imported sports car will turn to scrap metal if it isn't serviced, like a dog will become diseased and vengeful once abandoned, like you will turn to bloated filth if you eat only from the freezer, keep it in check wide-eyed youth.

the terrace

I see the sheep walk in a disjointed but flawless unison. Oblivious to the binary outcome facing them, to be shawn or to be slain. How do they not see what is to become of them. Caffeinated beverages of Italian name in cardboard cups keep them high enough in a legally and socially acceptable manner, high enough to forgot how much they hate themselves. Look to the sky, the rain is falling, instead of cleansing this crowded wasteland it just adds solute to the cesspool, mixing all the blank stares into one.  Or am I far too naive, is this everyones fate regardless of geographical location. Fuck that.

Speculation

Is there luminescence to be found at the conclusion of this linear passageway?
A man I knew once spoke of the road we all think we must travel, he said, if you believe is to be a road you will find an ending. However, if you accept that there is no road, your destination will be nothing and everything......

On occasion, such nonsense relapses into some majestic parable. I think the more troublesome part is not deciphering the words but rather understanding the reasons why we interpret things in such a way. I don't  talk of finding contentment in simplicity or trying to revert to some primal manner of existence.

I know you think about rhythms of the sea, of the ocean. Can you see the rhythm of humanity? Where are we now, are a verse, chorus or bridge? Was the renaissance a solo on an ibanez? Was world war 2 a drum crescendo? Are we a bass line fill as it often seems, something deliberately dull to make the next scene more powerful? Or are we the fade-out? all instruments and vocals reducing in volume to silnce.

Do I try convince myself that I talk in riddles to add color to an otherwise morosely monotone world?
The quest for comprehension of my drivel merely acts a proxy for you to ascend higher into the unending skies of what?, maybe knowledge, maybe detachment. It doesn't matter, as long as it keeps you occupied,

Concluding

A bright clear 35 degree day, Waves crashing at moderate swell of one metre. Aesthetically flawless girls on the beach periodically gazing out to sea, they see me here, gently bobbing to the waves, Duck dive another wave with ease, pop back up for a breath and see the faces on the beach, looking slightly more distant this time. As if I'm suddenly a hundred yards further away, how odd, turn and duck under another wave... except this time fail to surface as intended. I gasp with unprecedented force, taking in a colossal mouthful from the infinite supply of sea water. Unable control my legs, can't orientate myself, a sense of weightlessness and detachment overwhelms me in this enthralling circumstance afflicting my person.

Finally surface after my longest ever duration binding my breath, I see the faces on the beach again, they appear closer than before. All of them now fixated on my vicinity, arising with haste and approaching the waters edge. However, its the blue eyes of a blonde haired elegance seize all my assiduity, fixated with far greater authority than those stares from the adjacent forms, their alacrity becomes obscure in the periphery of such beauty. I see only her, surrounded ominously by an encroaching scarlet hue. A hue which now covers her face, her beautiful eyes, as does the water... I fare thee well, kind maid, You make it all worthwhile.

Summer heat

The first strong winds of a mindset know as summer may be upon us. That simple yet powerful sensation of  the body feeling instantly calescent may have come again. That's what we want, what we believe will be an all enduring catharsis. Will we first feel overwhelmed by the heat, initially trying to reject its anomalous power. Grow to accept it and allow the dreams to materialise. Remember, you can experience it better than you ever read or imagined it, simply by reminding yourself, only what you see in front of you is real, everything else purely noise, interpretative disquisition of those you hope share reciprocal delusions.

The fading of the light is a perpetual occurrence that can render ones attitude to run in parallel to the fading. The converse being so grand and regal, that it makes everything justifiable.

12 Stitches

Irreversibly debilitated by the redundancy in modern devolution. Is it all that all elucidation is so moronically clichéd that it has emerged as purely the folly of the sadist. Redemption is never a forlorn hope. The arduous inquest of whether we should help the chumps or mock them is disorientating, like waking up on a bathroom floor, the walls plastered in your blood. Triumph is readily achieved, its only a function of your own perception.