This is the last for youUser:Serprex 17:15, November 11, 2011 (UTC)
Always the jestful quip. The terse poignancy. The straight faced joke
Improper glares are sin. Missing that vital tangent. Two faced
You'll spy the door and smile when the light beam sets
Twinkle for a star collapse
You're walking the line on a drop to see there's something more than this which all of you would see for yourself to think otherwise and wonder elsewhere like space or kitchen
You'll find pneumonia sounds worse than it really is. I am pneumonia
Now bow. Arms folded. Lights out. Stop smiling. Post happiness. Something more
You'll flee tonight until sunrise and stop it all back again. Cover your ears and duck
Wake up on noon. Walks on and on no longing gone; nonetheless
So much more. So so long
Desperation can be smelt. Chased down by pity. Filth
Again down through the trapdoor for a moment to last one moment more
Wreck havoc without breaking posture. That's stature
To enjoy ritual. Intention in every action acted before. Preconceived processes by which forethought shows itself more capable than improv even without knowledge of this individual moment's individuality
Holding as held. It is the only signal. So important to detect, yet so dehumanizing to declare "I am man." The utmost priority yet nothing's worth the entire investment of one's self
The wrong thing done right is worth doing over the right thing wrong. That's audacity
You already knew this; mon petit mouchoir noir; lost in letters; we're all growing cold; I like you; who am I to ask who am I?
Somebody else
Look everywhere; looking elsewhere
I fail to see where my ambiguity lies. This is not one of those. These are aware of their faults. It's giving a crook a crooked smile when it hits what's hit. That moment of "I know, and now you; let's pretend we don't, and have some fun"
You've lost touch. Will that non sequitur be to go? No
& I slowly feel
I'll have it right here: feel slightest sterns confirm you've got naught but soft grit and suave chalk potted in mauve tricks or vermillion highs. Get twice doubled in four four time if you'll flip a coin and slip lip before it's chosen this or that
This; not that. Neither need be either
A long while passes
Our subject has died so long ago; no longer late. Life is ninety nine percent tactics; take it as it is. Take it as it goes; so it goes
Severance: I wish you well, but I don't care to see you
Compensation: Te quiero
Opposition: No you don't
Prophylaxis: Fuck me
Initiative: Fuck you
Here's mockery: Dandelions. Dandy lions; a story just aching to be written
All has been well
As long as you know what you're doing, all will be well
You know what you're doing; all will be well
A short while passes
All is well & forever will be
A shorter while passes
All is not well
A long while passes
How are you? / Meh / How are you? / Well / How are you? / Very well / How are you? / Quite well / How are you? / Rather well
Good
But it doesn't end like that. It isn't that easy. All is well, but it keeps going on. It falls apart and comes back again. It goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on again & again & again & again & again & again
Until we're here. Again. Doing this. Then that. Smashed together, crashed apart, smeared from days once held together by gentler times and calmer passions
Everyday we wake and choose to live a life but dead
I'm back
There was this person standing up there up far high up on taller ridges
Here's to ridges
I'm back
I want to meet someone nice
But time goes on. Times go on going. Every note fades away. Every tone pales
Here's to pale black lipstick
Kiss me, you're gorgeous
& don't worry, I know
We're all growing cold
& don't keep me close, I know
We're all growing cold
& don't leave me all alone
Lest we all keep growing cold
I don't want to grow
But...
Alright
That just confirms everything I knew about myself. A slap in the face
More like a stab
Thanks for that in all sincerity
I'll grow up and blow away
& yet...
So it goes
On & on
To each his own
But to him, certainly, his own
Until we find ourselves anew, passing in the dawn, wanting to blame someone else for who we've made them by trite inoculation. Our subject, so long gone, now rises
They'ven't Heaven fonder than this which we'ven't Hell more prudent
The lights went out last night. I traced a line in the dark. Some slight geometry designed to pair
Now it wavers
Brought to bear by slight, yet on second thought, but it's okay, because it's all the same in the end
No it isn't. Transposition is an abstract phenomena only appearing conceptually in models of the abstract. It cannot exist in one's consciousness. It is an unconscious occurrence. These things happen. The moment is after it's already occurred. It occurred at some point in time before now and after then. Plucked and set to dry; it's ripened
So glad I'mn't
What a mess. Such a nothing much. Just enough to stir. For when times are less
Whenever you're ready. Whenever you're done. Whenever you're whatever
Something, anything, but please more tangible than some broad everything. But if that's all, alright, lest nothing; whatever
The continuation ends, the head sits up, the body lays down. Say that's the worst, and I'll find something better
Don't say, just ask: Why do we do these things?
I don't know
Where am I going? I don't know. Why am I here? I don't know. Where are you? I don't know. When can I come down? I don't know. How will this end? I don't know. Will I still be here tonight? I don't know. Why do I love you? I don't know. Why don't I know? I don't know
Sick of this sick
You were sick, but now you're well again
Well, well, well; how do you do? I do do do! So so I so, I'm so so so!
I saw that I saw in the saw I saw. Then it cut me
My autopsy won't reveal anything you didn't already know. Roll me in all turned inside out and cut me again, one more time, to bring the outside out. There I'll be, already aged, wrinkled and bled
Like our subject, I'll've died long ago. I'lln't rise to greet the passing days
Days have passed
More days pass
Our subject, once fallen, once risen, now falls again
& still days pass
Tomorrow the sun will rise again
& the day after
Until one day there is no sun, and there is no earth. When there are no more petty crimes for petty loves, but only pretty moments unobserved by self observant servants of deterministic fatality. The slight fade will set to glow from frothy vapor wells pulled in by nearer gravity wells than when far meant for us something so short for whatever it is that is now
But that's not now. For now, the sun will rise again
& the day after
But this is why this time is finite, and this time I'll waste it all again in a rush. That's my style
Burn it all away. Self immolation never giggled so much gleed
Out of the ashes, what a thing we fairy tales tell for those who need mirrors spelt out to them in funny words and silly dramas of peculiar coincidences
All the time we have, yet I've spent it all in mumbling pasts. But what is there to say? We've only got to do. We'll talk without saying anything at all, if that's what we've got to do
Nothing need be done
It is done
How might one learn from the past without having it linger? To rot on, for too long; no more voluptuous, so lonely boresome; somewhat worrisomely whorish, however morbidly rotund
People aren't paintings. They're lithographic pornographies
Ripped apart to flee anxiety so to hear the whisper from the ear. Premature stillborn. Only one trimester this time round. Hope beckons this declaration be itself premature
Too soon. Preempted insofar as behavior lags behind thought. But it suits: a semicolon is a transitional point. It is no end, it is no beginning, it has no words to say, only elsewhere to go
Where else?
Give me something else to read
Thrice here's to insofar. If only I had three
Back to nothing
Now everything simplifies. The complexities have washed out and our subject dies one last time
& again. One last time
Prophetic insofar as some things are sometimes something
One more time is when the last time was last time
I prefer misery to anxiety
Comparisons make all bad sour
Here's to sour
It's after it bounces off the tongue that one realizes: scrap all that last few things, we were in need of a tangent
Here's tangent: to
Guess not. Here's where long term rationalization needn't be applied: when all choices result in regret, take on Hedonism
It's with thinking like that that our subject mightn't've needed to live more than once to die happy
More or less I'd've thought there wasn't something else to indulge in, yet I'dn't'ven't thought otherwise
Be it as it may, for as it is is only what it is through which intentions are supported by the environment surrounding
This is why one must have explicit morality. The end point of a moral stand is this: I'd die sooner than
Oh what the Hell, like this'll ever've been otherwise. When morality enters, abstraction has overstayed itself. Let it exit, so that we might speak of that which concerns us over those which concern others. Swindled for I wither, hither I go less tethered; but lesser I am if measured against feathers. This is my weeping
It passes
; is a transition into the next year. Like days, these too will pass. Scale scales
That's a rather awful line. Here's another: To scale an anthill on the top of a mountain is a high altitude climb as far as altitudes go
Breaks the point, falls out of line; especially with alluding how altitudes go
Fell out of focus. Blunder one way, then the other. If you can't see what's in front of you, how are you going to see what's behind? Stop looking back. These words are being ambiguous. I don't know how to go about noting that the ambiguities are wrong, unlike in the usual case where they suit whatever. Eventual comparison to how I've been tactically poor these past few days. But it'll pass, or maybe it already did. Things don't pass back to old; they pass into another passing
Then, there on the bench, a wicked grin spotted an olive trying to get her toothpick in a row. So he polished his teeth to go bite a nickle and bring back the change. Less than expected, but a bone's got to stretch a little. The olive walks on over and chucks a lemon for a cranberry. The lemon's got one choice to make: Lime or dime? Wine or dine? Make that two to go, back on the road, stomach flat on a cloud. Some stalk from the button presses a crater in the moon and decides that this impact is sufficient on the world at bay. Back to the olive and her cranberry: She ate it. Gobbled down and snapped up to grind, still wearing brackets hung on track lines stolen for a pair of dames missing belts to welt each other wet
Nonpareil; semicolon
I was told to tell this when this would be. This is. That was how I told. That being this inductive metaphor which is this
Semicolons are hot. Two years ago this was declared. Restricted to their proper use, lest they be some ugly mockery. The response: "I'm not very proper." Her romantic demand: When I found such a proper being; such a proper muse, I notify them that they are a semicolon; & that they must come with me
This is the tell
& that's that