Around the corner, down the street who knows just what you'll find. I often head on down that way when I wish to unwind. A vendor might set up a cart, selling divine munchies, or philosophers might hold court: wannabe Socrates. Or there are those days of muggers, or when painted girls flirt, or when the somnambulist roams in sleep, sans a nightshirt. The city never lacks chaos: always something to see. Sometimes it pulls one forward; sometimes it makes one flee.
Sitting naked beside the road, stripped of all I'd once owned. I see a flower stare at me, and recall being stoned. The painful thumps upon my flesh, the cracks internal heard, the racing breath, the anxious feel as my sight slowly blurred. What crime is madness, I wonder? What is it to be free? A slap to faces of all those tied to the old birch tree?
Our lives are blobs that melt away. You may not sense the drips. It happens slowly; you may never hear burbled blips. You may not feel that it's lighter, or that it's lost some girth. Because you've shed it gently each and every day since birth. And when you feel the withering, will you take it as loss? A good loss like becoming lean -- a skimming of the dross? Or like a vicious theft of the best parts of one's being: like time has grabbed the valuables and taken to fleeing? The melt will continue onward until there is no more. So, think yourself experience rich though you are time poor.
There is an angry beast inside who shakes at me sometimes. It gives me mean and violent thoughts. It draws no moral lines. It'd kill them all in vicious ways without heartfelt remorse. This fever of being must be, until it's run its course. Then I can be civil again, and my blood can cool. And I can play my normal role: -n- be done playing the fool.
I don't mean to cast aspersions, but it would seem to me parents shouldn't give a child stabby things 'fore the age of three. I don't know whether this household has a pup or kitty, but if the kid can spear the floor the pets ain't look'n pretty. Saying a babe shouldn't have a spear, you'll call me "left-wing nut," but I don't like dog-on-a-stick: even if it's a mutt.
Adrift at sea for days and days, who knows how it will end? Your body sloshes like the waves, but as your mind descends. Your mouth is dry; your body pruned. In thirst, the water taunts. But - ever wet - your skin sloughs off. When soaked, the water haunts. The sun burns hot. Then fog rolls in, and senses are deprived. And washing up on vacant shores, you find that you've arrived. You know not where - but feel relief. Land monsters can't be worse than those that grab you by the mind while high seas you traverse.
In caverns below the city lives a beast, reviled. It's fierce and ancient and patient -n- won't come up unless riled. When you read of disappearance: kidnapped or ran away? It might be neither one, rather, it's breached the light of day. So, if this beast is not one you wish to look in the face, When you take to song and dance: don't stomp or over-Bass!
I see so many statues of dragon-slayers mid-kill. The winged serpents pierced by a lance conjures up such a thrill. But there're no dragons, never were. So, what were they slaying. Dinos went extinct before our time is all that I'm saying. So, were they killing geckos, or maybe a rock lizard? Maybe chickens, given the wings? Struck right through the gizzard! Could it be St. George liked to drink or was tripping ergot? To earn so many statues, he'd a publicist, I bet. "The dragons were metaphorical!" OK, that's really swell, but shouldn't George's heroism be figurative as well?
One day I passed a gray monkey, and something made me turn. I caught the primate in the act of issuing a burn. Its eyes were closed; its tongue stuck out. Its head twisted to tease. And when it saw me seeing it, for a sec, it did freeze. As if not a thing had happened, and it was not to blame. Before I could make my rebuke it multiplied my shame. by blowing me a raspberry followed by a big smirk. Then it scrambled away before I went truly berserk.
A sign that hangs on down the street proclaims to one and all that coming soon there will be a Lonely-Hearts Club Ball. A dance of manic turbulence where singles 're all & none. You can come all by yourself, but you'll never leave as one. You'll be swept into unity with undulating hoards. Bound by bindings you'll feel, not see; you'll never cut these cords. So, welcome to the end of you, as only you can know. And welcome to the beginning of the everlasting flow. For an end is a beginning of something bold and new. And a beginning is an end: 'cause we're just passing through.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 