Words are clouds

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, May 20, 2012 Under: Rhymed Verses

The psychoactive timeline goes as follows:

Man gets dementia but dimensional man tans in a frozen grotto
The latest hunch is I’m supposed to follow the white rabbit into Chernobyl’s hollow?
Stone Diablo, saliva foams at the corner of it’s jaws like old risotto
Who dares brave the beast, no bravado, just soup of quotes in an open module
Mongolian time globe, white walled hospital with no major perks
They’ll label you insane if you’re crazy enough to fill out all the paperwork
So you chose to lick the fickle flames in spurts? Locked and loaded, my cage’s terms
Propane’ll splurge - it’s cloudy with a chance of aimless blurbs
Words of proof that a plague’ s unearthed…
As berserker blades and Kurdish tanks disperse,
You march around Supervagabond with your cape & purse
What is he thinking? Does he see us? Is he awake? Relevant questions.
He’s bed ridden with blood ribbons but they won’t touch it
Drug clinic soul brother so smothered he’s drinking Peppie Bitchmole from a gold trumpet
On the exterior, he is a yellow man of peace - inside he’s itching from mosquito egg yolk
WHAT THE FUCK???!!! Squirming he learns from the agony, a strange reaction
His face is drained with cracked lips, sick of playing the silent scrabble that his brain’s enacting
Abstraction - hospice commodity - decomposing like dark bailiffs
Fearing, loathing the lost vagueness… verbose cloak floating in star stasis
Empty phrases, spatial bone seed nexus, I told these textists
To inspect their decks for the holy vexes, while Master Wu tangles with the most infectious
Drowned out by the drip drip drip of the nosebleed section
The shindig pilgrim slips into his lonely legend
He grabs for his soul as it separates silhouette from his body, DON’T LEAVE YET, CHEN!
But it’s already headed for the exit, it’s pale white entrails trickling up the moldy bread
While his intestines feel compression, he ingests what the nurse is injecting
A mixture of crunchy earthworm Tetris - now he’s convulsing, reverted to sexless
Impulsive and wretched, a cursive inception - his jugular becomes a stolen necklace
A corpse of his former self headed to the crossroads but the traffic signs poke him senseless…
Then it starts to pour - calligraphy in raindrops, no sympathy for slain cops
Sanskrit scriptures of his ecstasy, the Japanese syndicate’s commitment to remember me
Decadent battery placid for the pistons of our memories
Religion is amenity, a public bathhouse for spiritual contemporaries
It takes a hands-on guru of magic malice to track this visual telepathy
His hair like mangrove patches, looking up to a sky full of rainbow dragons
Old age just happens to impose the same old sanctions
Spelling out his demise; a death sentence that, grammar-wise, is exceedingly average
Corrected for being a fragment, collective intermediate bracket
Enter media racket, the whole shebang stampede apparatus
All because you went from Aspirin to acid tablets…

In : Rhymed Verses 

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