by Kallen email@example.com
Fornication. Passengers astride signed reflections,
Coming doom, impending gloom, the present room.
Our worlds have collided, asphalt marks treading over driven minds,
Grinding forward with commercial laclustre..
Cosmotic energy hounding our insides with emptiness.
Internal motions are carried over steel wires,
The train rattles past structures planned on foreign soil.
Caves of intangible entities lie in wait,
Swallowing without breathing.
A steel and paint world fit for presentation to the guardians of greed.
Exposed through creative crime.
Alone, my private sonic distraction amplifies through bricks and boulders.
Ancient lines trace under smoke and cloud.
These white worn sneakers wreaking vengeance against the abuse of effort.
I push up through maelstroms of my chosen path.
Contorted control fleets through my nimble conceptions
Every weekend I travel along these littered tracks.,
I look out by the places I used to work..
The invested time of my only one and last....
A momentary stay among the beats of a lockjaw liturgy...
Art seen through the muddy drool of an air-tram window.
Discovering attention diversion techniques of control.
Closing our eyes to today, traces of yesterday persist.
When I can afford the energy, I relive previous lives lost.
Those escaped, ripping through planetary porch screens.
Regardless of how long it takes to paint it out,
The deep black and red swashes flow through my hands across canvas
Unwritten letters focus against the industrial seascape.
I'm not a robot, I can't be that robot, Labouring systematically to remove that robot.
Yet I feel it there in the shadows, testing me.
Whenever I feel I am winning, it sweeps down to remind me i'm forever incomplete.
Insert 25c 0 Credits
My thick heavy jacket hangs from my frame,
A tattered spokesperson constantly reminding me of previous idealistic endeavors..
Flailing amidst the initial domain of expression I've strapped upon my back.
I cannot create a line that does not already exist.
No matter the efforts with spraypaint or markers.
All have been recreated in the manner orders beyond
A calm classification to perpetrate ego past the barrier of 1 into 7 Billion
I sit and watch the world wrapping around my head,
Pinned under the rubble of plastic advert holders.
Black strips holding them into the husk of public transit.
Am I supporting these incomplete thoughts?
Scarred by images pummelled down upon my grey flesh.
Stop! I don't know how!
Another addictive element of the street, beyond organic, past manic,
Tags step out of the professional folds of classification,
Taking it beyond the law.
Funkified processions step through fallen days
Moving patterned choices that sing with impromptu anticipation.
Walking the killer adverbs through fields of sleeping clouds.
Only the rains of expression can release downpouring depression..
Few have the jump to break the tracings of old gravity.
I'm still ascending.
Robot music dances through my headphones, pouring into my dynamic.
I look across the black water strips at humans.
Don't these invisible people stay stuck in one's mind?
Where does consciousness begin?
How much inner step is inbred? At what points do we stop thinking? Improvisation has become an essential tool.
Break and smash, riot and thrash
The jagged steel and ceramic plates scream to a stop.
Writers leave their shoes outside when they step. Respect?
Consider all as rewritten history, humility knows everything about nothing.
Repetitive stories involving all outside our spiritual mouths.
So here I sit, pondering the people in the sky.
They don't move. They don't interact, impoverished?
It all comes down over me like a melting cheese slice.
Wet and unreal, smelling like a cheap rubber toy.
Silver and red landscapes blur past, a montage of houses and factory stacks.
Reality has painted itself over, realism has died.
Skeletal dreams impaled among the ruins.
Utopian chaos sprawls krylon corporate canker-contact.
Spreading like a viral ruse. Nothing left to lose.
Hearts break free flowing up over sleeping trains,
A steel forest of midnight pitch concealing juggernaut justice.
Fear pushes me to develop defying definitions.
Could these people understand what I have witnessed?
Lost in this ocean shell, the conch echoes tribal tides.
Do these others have the word to describe all of this?
All the past? All the future? All my internal organs?
Robot conversation interrupted, faulty headphone cord shorts out.
Cutting deeply in from a different aural direction.
I have detected the proof civilization is crumbling..
Not from outside, but within. I twist the cord into earplace
Momentary reality overlay.
It cracks loudly, chopping off my ear. I am alone and earless..
Running through the subway car hemorrhaging.
Stop me! Won't anyone stop me????
I need real classification, any destination...
I am reading too many subway advertisements
The cord disintegrates in my hand.
My hand, then my arm falls off.
I look to the other passengers in crouching camouflage.
They don't notice, perhaps their eyes have fallen out.
Madness in sanity
My disembodied mind sits adjacent on the vinyl seat.
What is it thinking?
Does it ponder why I've been dissected from the shell?
does it??? does it???
I don't even know if I can think...
Yet I remain moving forward in space, unmoving.
Darkness swings overhead,
Bleached, phosphotic rail-guides stutter past.
Frozen explosions on concrete, denying explanations...
Counteracting your contemplation of that person in your bed.
With the pillow you use to crush away your tears
I make emotional dents in your armor
I want to sing in your shower, I want to take you..
Invading your grasp of otherness.
Mass intentions, favourite detentions..
I'd leave only the faintest trace of physical presence,
having crawled inside you.
A cognitive laser printer spitting emotions into your waking cereal.
Mist clings over early darkness of daylight.
Pressing my sneakers to the floor,
I lean forward, glancing down the steel shuttle.
I look back to where a youth sits.. a backpack and a scythe.
Splattered in thick paints, clothes caked with flowers and shit.
Is this my God, a monster? Is it me?
My eyes water as I blink to refocus..
A mise-en-scene of constant jump-cuts as time toggles.
The mirror tricks of the sky inside.
Urban plantation wreckage, our fertile soil.
graffiti is war paint against standardization.
Wallpaper pasted in the cradle of our skulls.
Tense, walking silently with my past transgressions.
Arriving home, I sit to my desk, trembling and nervous.
I pick up a pencil and stare at it.
I feel the currents underneath charging up for another assault.
Much more comfortable was the machine that caught my senses
carrying me through the slippery greased bearings of public interaction.
Silence becomes all intrusive.
No public ambience to quiet my internal beast.
These years of my life have travelled so quickly to me today.
Moments rumble across time shaking my calm.
Shouting voices, Burned hands, Shadows over my heart.
I am immobilized
Nervously, stretching forward I pull down the cover of my word machine.
Tapping over the closest renditions of my perceived presence.
My body drinks the sonic landscape through poisoned pores
The presence of unseen others knock at my door.
My stomach tightens, and I close my eyes hard.
I stop, close the machine, and sit in my temporary space.
This place with my name for only three months.
I have decided to leave..
I want to ask the flower and grease boy where to go...
Answers will only be found through time.
Speaking in echoes on my borrowed tin roof.
I listen to the sad melody of helpless raindrops
I pick up my pens and sketch pad,
Moving ink across the page with the guidance of fear.
Drawing those weeds I'm afraid i'll see too soon.
Growing underground they push up relentlessly.
Plans for solid foundations must include weeds don't they?
For without consideration, the cracks shall form and the walls shall fall..
I am a fractal of living thought born to explore..
this orb from which we have rolled like a beetle in the sky.
I sever the umbilical cord stuck to my head at birth
That boy of grease and flowers, Dense tree stands inside his hands.
He's running free in the solace of his own forests.
Closing my sketch book,
I pull over my sweater
Sinking under the foliage of my bed
My mind runs down as I accept the next world.
Did you know what they said about me?
Could you hear their stares? Why did I think they really cared?
Living freedom exposes internal chains without conscious difference.
How dearly I love my own domination.
Years of investing in the wrong tomes, I never realized...
All the words are imprinted within the design of my humanity
Success. Dost this lie in efforts only to be discovered without your assistance?
Taking roads beyond dreams to find wells of inspiration.
I wake up and look at my pager still sleeping in my warm hand.
Perhaps the vibrations will translate initiations to travel further.
From the hidden oceans of the 5th dimension I dive deeply,
Taking the salmons tail into the unknown.
Though I may die, success will only belong to me.
Micro-woven fibres of my mind stretch across the expansive universe.
States of incoherent possibilities orbit my psionic core.
Behind, a trail of broken barriers lay scattered,
Flesh and bone left embedded
like playing cards sunk into walls
after the quick of a tornado.
Believing in the one touch of death,
has left me to fear nothing outside of myself.
Being in the wrong situation is only a result of miscalculated desires
Hitting up walls maintains a balance of self-respect and stability.
Obtained respect from the new environment, the world of the outcasts.
On their way in.
Painting my internal desires, my face pressed against a steel girder.
I peer at chipped and mutated marbles hidden from the sky.
I recognize myself in the gritty reflection.
My surface is pitted and I've never rolled only in one direction.
Wandering aimlessly through life exploring expressions.
No one bothers to pick me up.
Its better to not be known than to be forgotten.
All the directions my friends have entered.
discovering different paths through which they are drawn.
Often choices must be made after initial risks taken.
The exact turning point of experience.
The fear of being alone on the road is incomparable to most things.
The sour taste of loneliness as I skate through my new relocation.
I could taste it on the tongues of everyone I passed.
The world of half-spheres, dawning over my head as I lie sprawled on asphalt.
Escape is impossible.. One cannot become the billions...
Blowing over like a wind swept leaf, I push my world off the concrete
Floating into black voids of meditation and exhaustion.
Standing back on deck, gliding over cigarette butts and spit.
My vision is blurred but I don't stop to wipe my eyes.
Silent painful consideration, there is no way to discern fulfillment.
The only force through this happening were these wheels turning, grinding.
My trucks squeaked as I turned down the next alley.
Thrusting off into the unknown.
by Kallen firstname.lastname@example.org
First draft April 14th, 1996
This draft October 13th 1997 21:58:09
All material copyright © 1997, 1998 Kallen
Two parts of the Tao Ching to contemplate.
FORTY FIVE - By Tao Te Ching 500 BC?
Great accomplishment seems imperfect
Yet it does not outlive its usefulness
Great fullness seems empty
Yet it cannot be exhausted.
Great straightness seems twisted
Great intelligence seems stupid
Great eloquence seems awkward.
Movement overcomes cold.
Stillness overcomes heat
Stillness and tranquility set things in order in the universe.
Fame or self: Which matters more?
Self or wealth: Which is more precious?
Gain or loss: Which is more painful?
He who is attached to things will suffer much.
He who saves will suffer heavy loss.
A contented man is never disappointed
He who knows when to stop does not find himself in trouble
He will stay forever safe.
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