fisher king's wasteland

our world is changing – it always is, and our spirit is breaking as we allow the familiar gods of might and money to drag us further from the heights of our new and enlightened understanding. fashioning confusion, frustration and the claustrophobic need to escape to better, purer worlds we send ourselves onward into a pit of malevolent despair... as we always have. we are prophets and gods, devils and demons, full of colour and life yet bleached and blind; we know where happiness is not and we run towards that dark place because we only know to stop when faced with love. we are all as one and all alone, we want to love but fear to touch, we teach and preach but know only vice and misfortune. we shame ourselves with our lies while praying for the truth, and that truth will be hard and cruel but it will set us free. no more war, no more hate, only love and devotion and pleasure. then we will crumble because we require balance, and all will be lost. we must isolate the individual t

it is the breaking of a world its shatter reverberating before my ears he's pulling levers widening views and i think i think it's like staring at a jackson pollock with his flicks and drips of words actions over message then i realize that it's nothing like a painting he's straining the chicken soup of his reality backwards dismembering his discontent feeding himself to his ghosts as they speak through his own mouth lips curling back and teeth bared around a smooth accent there i am there we are enchanted

i have covered the well with cloud blown glass whose shapes seem to swirl and dance in the dim light if i listen closely i can hear the echoes of the hammer and nails that sealed it

there is no death we are crumbling under the enormous immeasurable weight of our inevitability each change, twist, turn part of a larger orchestra in sickness and in health for better or worse until acceptance

it's high summer and the tree by the bus stop with its heat-bleached bark and vivid green leaves throws its shadow under the wheels of the bus which i get on i carry on

smooth white marble tiles and skin, covered in green paint a soft tint splattered over face and table crouched over a finishing touch white and green teeth alternatively bared and grinning

there's blinding pressure in those unpacked boxes of broken and unbroken toys that define memories of what was and what should have been the pictures are warped even those i have yet to hang the books are mouldy even those i have yet to read and the to-do list just keeps on growing while boxes and boxes of who i used to think i was pile up by the door, to be thrown out and recycled and i let go of shades of who i think i'll be