The festive fires were burning hot, too hot for their own good. They melted through the rocky ground just feet from where I stood. I stepped back, wondering whether the fire would burn right through the planet to the molten core making a jet-like flue to push the planet from its path out toward somewhere strange, and by the time the fire 'd frozen we'd be beyond home range. Then I realized that it was I who burned far too fiercely, and all this from my febrile mind was just thinking weirdly.
arches echo ahead, stretching to the end of time left into the labyrinth, right to the blinding sun it's a land of stark contrasts on one side, great adventure but great peril on the other, painful monotony of well-lit spaces then there's straight ahead: a ceaseless repetition of today throughout all your tomorrows
bleached in bright sunshine -- thin, wispy white clouds are barely seen amid the washed out skies some summer day -- sending one running for sunglasses to avoid a blinding headache it seems the world might fade into a tabula rasa, or blanch anemically
So long ago I remember events that weakened knees. My mind a haze, my heartbeat hard my soul eager to please. When I was moved by subtle touch, a gesture, or a tease. But now that I'm an older soul I've lost that state of mind, but wish the world would grant me yet one golden chance to find the return to that state of life, where love and luck are blind.
a bull-shaped cloud drifts, chased by a piglet-like cloud -- oh, senseless skies
pain nails me to The Now there is no pulling away the only escape lies in finding the drift, riding the swells until there is nothing but those sacred undulations
energized by french fries Oedipal knife to the eyes when all know the truth, he still lies takes without asking burns while sun-basking fidgets reveal attempted masking always plays the ponies rules with wicked cronies -- but, like him, they're all phonies passes on a Big Mac just to shoot some bad smack opts to be skinny for his heart attack
a small town a cluster of buildings, really visible from the train and everyone who passed it must have surely wondered whether it always sat looking as they'd seen it for me, that was under gray & dismal skies my logical mind suggests that the village's situation changes daily but, really, it will never cease to be that hazy hamlet i viewed through running rivulets of rain that day on the train.
If you can't see the magic in a flower or a leaf, how can you see it in the work of some cutpurse thief? And if you can't see it in stars of a hinter night sky, how can you see it in the tricks -- a conjuror's slick lie? There's woe in where we find great awe -- those simple illusions. And what we miss reflects our keen everyday delusions.
Clouds roll over the low hills, enshrouding the vast plantation, crawling down into the valley, filling it like a bowl, until it drifts toward one like horror show death mist, or like the mustard gas that sank into the trenches, once upon a time. But without the threat of death, except for death of that view of rolling acres of tea trees that stretch out to the mountains.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 