Mathematical equations, and a ghost…
Mathematical equations, and a ghost, nagging me since may I guess. I don’t think it’s fair to demand too much attention from those who’ve passed through the postmortem exhumation stage.
I got mean, stopping in my words, my thoughts, grotesqueness, sickness, something to be judged and derived from. Ego begs me to drag on, wrenching you through what surely is need in anyone else not as eager to eat on the meat of the english breakfast table, the bird singing, that will surely be dead tomorrow, remembered with the tube injection of a thanksgiving syringe,
Whoa, wait, did I just say what I think I just said?
This is relation illusion, plastered into disjointed, meanderings, communicated through a mind controlled psychiatric patient’s mind voice.
I wonder what that sounds like in arabic?
Some how I must differentiate myself, through the squelching of dissent, which is just one accepted person in a group of power mongers deciding that the voice uttering dissent comes from a mind with dysentery.
This is when I stare the surgeon in the eye.
Metal in a file, or in a pill. Is there really any difference betwixt the two?
Covered in caremel, healthcare is the corn syrup of the world. Sweet like a lollipop, lick your lips.
The intonation, the focus on the tongue in projecting the r, rolling over the l, and dashing to pieces on the d: WORLD
Order, urdu, rubber - projected significance. Subliminal, succinct.
Straight back to the order of business,
Exhale. It is an experience for me too.
Confuse and penetrate.
i pledge allegiance to the unitied states of america, and her allies, and i hope truly and sincerely that that masters of the slave ships trespassing the mind choke and fall to the ground drinking from the frothing chalice of cum unto thee, the cess of vileness transgressed .
To grab the mind unto filth, and shame, debase the eyes and watch the time slip, wet between the thighs, i’ll drop the honey from my finger to thine tongue.
We’re lost in an ocean, two organisms connecting, reaching out, as the pulse drops, the intensity slows, it becomes a promise, a ritual, that dies in fertile ground, and in spring is there again, and then we lift our eyes, a horizon, singular, a plane of perspective,
Lay down on the floor, and see the world from a puppy’s perspective, life flips when it has feet, but the extra sensory knowledge gained from perspective remains.,
Seeing it now,
The puppet writes
Laying on the floor, cooling my head on the slab of rock beneath the boards, thoughts drift, and dissipate, clarity, then a rush of concentrated pumping blood from the heart, piercing through the brow, passing through the forehead and emanating from the ears, and the throat swallows, and the pressure returns with a deep breath, but you already took one.
This is where I am, the birds beg me to open my door, and take in the fresh morning air, my landlord asks where my rent payment is, and i think about a song, made for an adoring fan I’m sure, “I’m learning to play my guitar,” and soon will be rich, but like xxxxxxxxxx said on his graduation, was supposed to stand triumphant, holding up a colossal pillar of psycho babble bullshit, anyway you look at it. I was where I am now, the prisoner, and the birds are still asking me to open the door, and I’m hungry, and I’m high, just as commanded I be, sentenced through cowardly lips.
I kneel over my iPad, wireless keyboard, and remain unperturbed, because heaven is just a knock away.
I boiled some water. I rolled a joint. Meditated, during the process.
Watching, listening, waiting, for the bubbles to emanate from the titanium vessel. Small bubbles of air rising to the surface. Just the right diameter in sphere. I unpackaged the tea, the neighbor left for work, I looked into my cave, choices, choices…
I thought about something else, then I poured the hot water from the titanium vessel to my steel GI cup complete with folding handle and parachute cord for preventing the unthinkable loss while practicing for space in yosemite camp.
It’s rent due day. I’m pretty good at paying my bills, because I obeyed, ever so watchfully all these years, and living in parallel vacuums with real people…
I drifted off. So much on the mental horizon, built there, put there, sharpened there, and then pointed back, this is the modern slave’s condition.
Unemployment, I’m being forced to be counted, afte….
Anger, yes, anger, and then rewinding through the narrow vision of life I’ve been subjected to.
Guilt passed down through mind control, to Brazil, asking me to write, in relation to guilt, at not climbing when I was there,
The monkey cage in the fictional portrayal of Osama’s nightgown murder scene- comes to mud, or maybe it irritates, itches, makes your knee do wierd things. Reality. Doesn’t matter anymore.
The construct in the mind, built on, and improved upon, and fortified, with butter, and melted to make everything else work better, usable disposable, useful, like a dinosaur to a jet plane, I suppose.
Who just flew out of the gutter? Presumptuous, head on. Siri, what is ego?
You should wander on that.
Soft hands write these words, from a voice that has bled, not all the way, No these are my words, built with a poise of point of perspective, as I think about plummeting at 800 MPH through the earths atmosphere,
I sweat with the controls. Wrote that when softness turned to hardness. I reached out, we waited, touched, and melted. Starting off a chain of events passed on from chain of events to chain of events to chains of events forever passed on…
Repeating in speaking is similar, with a hiss of accent controls, like a race car courting a hair pin curve in a plane of existence, I must exercise myself, in the name of being industrious, and stand with a sickle, for the garden is not free from control of rooting, what it is, lineage, purpose, history, tribal significance in relation to use and ceremony.
I will stand forth, it is change in the attitude, the dramaticism, of the imagination, and the spark in which I add copper to form, and molt glass or shine light through a prism,
What do I honor, what is control? My keyboard floats on one knee, my speech balances on one toe, laughs. Still, I’ll show you what balance is not, and I’ll show you an imperfect method of balance based on the price of serving you.
Sean M Tucker