Always scheming, scarcely dreaming–is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake.
Or have I wandered oddly off the road into the trees?
Espouse that fantastic land, that porous slate through terrible glade. Wisps swim to curl night among ether and silver shale–pale vortexes swept and sullied, inking silken scrawls for rend and rape of dreg and coughing man. Entail, so wroth be the wanderer, of platitude and tale spoken beyond listless temper. Echos or whispers or tide-battered bones slipped to steal unwary souls and filth and empty blood borne of order and contempt.
A conundrum espies an infinite wake, bereft of solace, robbed of succor. Instead, splendor and convoluted mirages ripple and entreaty fealty or some semblance of instrumentality beyond obvious and unrepentant madness.
It sings of listless fate
and they listen
The pariah raves for reprieve
but damned perfectly
Tortured ceaselessly by forever
Still, a blink pierces the vale and cruelly illuminates every sordid fleck and sardonic splinter of corrupted tapestry. Driven unreality crafts this mockery of fantastic oblivion, voracious and intent to rend sanity through tantalizing simulacrum inspired by grievous shadows cast beneath vile imitations of predictable automatons.
There are things of dark,
and things within the sky.
There are folds of woe,
and wroth of shallow eye.
There are prophets that sit upon words haughty or stripped of fear. And sit they must, digesting solemn mixes of faithless harrow. They tire of life, promised full of meaning and limitless wonder. They are broken, the wanderers, lit like frozen candles flickering in the infinite chaos, striving weakly to scale and scrabble brittle scaffolds of reason.
Stop writing… you’re drunk.
“Fuck you, brain. God damn, you have to ruin everything, like a pool full of kindergarteners, gotta piss all over my parade. I’ve somehow scribbled over 180 pages so far, easily half a book. What you got to say about that, asshole? Yeah, I thought so.”
You do realize you’re being ridiculous.
“No, I’m not. You’ve plagued me my entire life. Mugging me, beating me with a lead pipe whenever I try to sleep, making me hide in a corner while everyone else enjoys life.