It was a cool night to shoot the moon. The pieces of ourselves that we leave behind in our childhood burst forth in fiery images of love and passion. We desire only to get away, we desire only to think for ourselves and destroy the collective hive mind that is imprinted upon our souls since the conception of man. The blueprints mother nature had grinded out of her own teeth and bone were of simple antimatter, which substantiated the claims against our bonding ties to love. We throw up our hands in wonder and scream. We scream because we love, because we give enough of a shit to slighten our jaws and utter syllables called words, to make things called sentences, which make things called prayers. We are in a city, we are in a world, we are in a universe but we are not in your favor. For that, you are a shameful God and we banish you from the hearts and minds of our people.
We sing like we will die five minutes from now. The day that we all do die, we will not regret being wrong. We sang louder than we needed to. We did more than we had to. We fucking ruled the world in that minute, in that single instance, and there is no taking back the history. Once it has occured, it is burned into the universe, it becomes energy to be constantly recirculated in story and idea.
Rained upon us is the slow syrupy drizzle that pulls on our emotions, the ectoplasmic hailstorm that fills the trenches with blood, that counters the knowledge of rational beings, the evil that smothers hope while it dreams, the terrible deeds of men born without the ego trump card. This rain will irradiate the skin off our bodies and make us want to live and die simultaneously.
Elroy hated the drudgery of thinking. One day Elroy smoked crack to make his life better, and it did. Elroy smoked some more, and it simplified his life further, all he ever had to think about now was getting more drugs. This made Elroy ecstatic. So Elroy got some ecstasy. He danced naked with a stripper and lost a tooth getting punched by the bouncer. But Elroy didnt give a care, because Elroy smoked crack. No one knew why he was happy or how he could contend with the rest of the world and not feel ashamed. It is because Elroy was a crack smoking green toothed street rat, and God loved him.
They played canasta and smoked cigarettes while slitting the throats of soviets. From a distance you could see the souls flee the bodies of their kills, leaving in their wake gorgeous fiery rainbows that shot across the sky in a force like no other.
The colors made me smile, as they rushed through my neurons like a flurry of angeldust. Within the grout of my cerebellum is a memory which contains the essence of my being. Soon I will forget it, and as such become a different person entirely. I beg of you to not alter my perception. I need to face life as it wants me to face it. I will grow stronger, I will be a warrior, and you will face me as I stomp on our curious rags and shackles and scream to the world my victory, and scream to the gods my name.
Heaven is an ice cream cone, with posies and superheros skirting around the scoops. On top of it sits an old man, who wags his cane at those who he figures ill guided or daft. The posies sing in a harmonic beauty, and reminisce about their ancestors, and of their great doings and teachings.
They murmured ideas that they exchanged among themselves at night. Above the trees and inside the skin of the clouds there is a prayer that got lost on its way to its God. Check the rhythm and play it like a beat, love the lost lies of your mouth and tear apart the sky and sought after bite you need to grow and strive forward in a land so foul even the mood of horse men and beer apocalypses have envy for those of us who want more, who want to get something out of being able to see the best in people, maybe once in a while we wont be able to see whats in who or whats in how or anything remotely like that, but thats alright because deep down we know we care. we know that for a moment there was a fiery underbelly below the zephyr of rushing emotion, caught in between the webbing of our fingers, which are always pointing to someone. When it comes to blame, we are all socialists.
As we spend our time reminiscing, children are crushed by the weight we press upon their small bodies. We shatter their spines with expectations and vicarious intervention. Every wish they utter is stifled with an order, or with subtle manipulation, or with an act of punishment. Hop in the rat race children, the pool is still shallow, your minds are too clean and we are jealous of the hope you have.
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