Your glorious hand,
Whose arches contain immense bodies beyond
The sustenance and power of dream,
Command this temporal oratory
Towards an understanding, worthy in virtue,
For all that I have come to seem.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Friday, 21 January 2011
Rolling useless like an old ball in an abandoned pool, days turning slowly from darkness into light, no clear period of passing, life becoming unhinged without a once revolving order.
Wild dogs and gentle pets gather, tearing themselves and children apart, feral food for a new and dark surrogate force whose fist slams hard dictates; waves of blood and a stench of decay without false protection of cheap perfumes.
Hundreds of square miles of new and desperate urbanization's, old and carefully insidious, ghastly crafted, control illusions are levelled for their aggregate and make way for a truth that will no longer respect vein theatres of hope; faiths that mankind might somehow tear itself from destruction.
Like cutting down trees or culling Deer, Rabbits, Badgers, Bears or Bison, billions are slaughtered, leaving infighting and the mechanics of disease to counter remaining hysteria and a space for the brutal indifference of instinct alone.
Aspirations for a better world accelerated oppression and an orchestra of schema's that had only self deception as a cure to the aberration known as The Human Race. Their respect for gentleness and love, came at the cost of a disproportionate ignorance, stupidity and irreconcilable loss.
Posted by Taren at 18:40
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Instead of rising from the damp,
Sweat tinted fabrics of sleep,
Swinging out and climbing into sky,
Instead to remain,
Like a stopper on the steam of sleep.
Those first prescious hours of daylight,
Lost forever in the theft of dreams;
A greedy solitude,
Amongst the false protection of fright.
Posted by Taren at 21:30
Friday, 7 January 2011
The noises could be heard loudly, everywhere, clanging and abrupt, dogs bleating their ill training and visciousness, traffic noise staining the horizon like dry rot spikes, winding through the remnant foliage like snakes, a chemical spill, an oil slick, an endlessly rearing tide, absorbing everything beneath, consuming all relentlessly, until its digesting mass would devour itself in a terrifying and ugly event of greater noise and filth, pulsating like the maggot riddled corpse of some strayed farm animal, swollen in stench amongst the derelict undergrowth that splits open concrete of yet one more betrayal of land.
Beyond all this, far enough for distance to dull clarity with atmospherics, once proud and ancient monuments to time and forces, the very humus from which long dead gods inhabited; mountains, had been skinned alive, lanced and twisted from their ground by incalculable minions, working, tirelessly blinkered for each and every ones need for a little bite to eat and the production of stones for boxes, housing them and their garishly empty, schematised, billboarded routes between; the white noise producers of that horizon lines, utterly soaked and incredulous, dry rot hum.
This landscape, an enormous work of art whose author bears no name but infinity, silently endures its rape and dismantling of allegory, picked at, loosing pigment and the alchemical minerals of that untitled, timeless and amorphous opacity of magic, mans blood, his mind, unable to comprehend and attacking, cannabilizing.
Posted by Taren at 19:23