Wounded wandering sleepless on a polished floor slipping unto two deaths, the one you hope for and the one you avoid. Hoping to end in a sleepy fog, mind swimming in tar, down into the shining black death instead of lingering decrepitude. Owning all beyond the time you awake but not owning over the lake of dream sleep.
I am but a dream of the great notion. When it wakes up I will just be a memory to it because when you are gone nothing more exists.
Falling with a tired head unable to do the list of shit you had planned. A hand arises in darkness and slaps your unready face shocking awake screaming cursing cunts and fucking off your attacker.
Mountain dew is slipping in the mildew of the morning approaching finally the mist creeps away from the mountain slope it blankets revealing tortured landscapes orange and russet cubes and bridges roads people scurrying along vultures soaring preying on death as it like deaths lover the vulture, the scavenger the pig dining on whatever it can get away with.
The man throws in a line wondering how it will turn out. Waiting for a bite not really, waiting for death more like it. I can’t see the love people have for the pedestrian. It is something to find joy in the small things and I do. Mostly in men and their creations and the absence of men completely.
What do I present to the world more than my imagination, I am afraid of death so I create. It is why we crave a progeny because we are afraid of death, it’s why men cheat, its why we write, it’s why we build and plant trees and spend our twilight years planting and growing in a small vain hope of leaving something behind because we are afraid of death. Plant a tree. It’ll be here for years after I’m gone. Build a house same reason, Have an affair because we want to hang on the the past to avoid the future. Like a regret, an anchor, a grudge. Stopping us from moving on into the future, holding into the past.