Saturday, February 9, 2008
the curtains fall like anvils, while the wig wearing aristocracy plumbs the depths of the oceans inside the halos of angels. rise, all you overgrown children, rise up until your eyelids stand at attention. stop thinking for a moment, get your hands out of your pockets, remove your wallets, you must make room for the giants to sleep in. there will be no aching ribs in the morning, only messy hair and the memory of something profound, something you felt that you hadn't felt before, something important that you are frantic to remember, but can no longer grasp. it was a floating moment, meant only for then. but hurry now, there are children to be born in the desert, and you are the only one who can deliver them.
Friday, February 8, 2008
The echo is so loud that my skull is starting to imagine that it is a jellyfish having a bad dream. It is as if I am standing on Zeus' nightstand listening to him snore while catfish swim in and out of his nostrils and my ears consider submitting their resignation. But the echo is just a less pretty version of the original, staring at itself in the bathroom mirror and wishing on plastic surgery, but no surgery can change a sound. You are what you are, echo! And that is just fine with me. Now lets make some more racket in this lonely canyon where the train-robbers used to roost.