junksick
Bluelighter
No longer must I ask where you are—you are beholden deep within all, solidly there after being bathed in through the flashes of putrid dust clouds. Energy from the brain coalesces to extremes of the soul pure and simple yet not as simple as that; where there we saw, we spoke, nor believed in anything at all. But the viciousness lay all around anyway—only because we could not toss away our silly passion on the pinkness of roses and the heavenly white smell that obscures.
Smoke the diamonds that are caught in the air. Become them, but never lay your silly fears to rest for one day the madmen will come after you too. Then who will cast the doubt? Who will throw pettiness around like so many rounds of ammunition—remember that they cast off the shadows, for a while.
You know: I’ve gone loopy over sandstorms that never quite really stop--delusions that fly high over all types of situations and reasons. With a bold certainty the bluntness is thrown into void to whirl upon its whirls following melding cosmic infusions. Kind of a hybrid grey-black: We never get back those days, full of undertones and overtones of a happy viscous pink.
Where did the fairies all go? They crossed the channel, treaded water and where gone down the tunnels of fate. With all the other make-believe characters: looked down by a greedy pack of degenerates who’ve made up a new batch of imaginaries to worship. Ours where fun at least, they only hurt as much as we really let them.
Implore me no more: I still yell in all melancholy hoarseness “stop”
Smoke the diamonds that are caught in the air. Become them, but never lay your silly fears to rest for one day the madmen will come after you too. Then who will cast the doubt? Who will throw pettiness around like so many rounds of ammunition—remember that they cast off the shadows, for a while.
You know: I’ve gone loopy over sandstorms that never quite really stop--delusions that fly high over all types of situations and reasons. With a bold certainty the bluntness is thrown into void to whirl upon its whirls following melding cosmic infusions. Kind of a hybrid grey-black: We never get back those days, full of undertones and overtones of a happy viscous pink.
Where did the fairies all go? They crossed the channel, treaded water and where gone down the tunnels of fate. With all the other make-believe characters: looked down by a greedy pack of degenerates who’ve made up a new batch of imaginaries to worship. Ours where fun at least, they only hurt as much as we really let them.
Implore me no more: I still yell in all melancholy hoarseness “stop”
