Factory of madness
Locked callousness is hidden here
The chains forgot to cry out for oil and now they burst in a crunch in a shower of flesh and red-tinged bone
The mind cheers, but remembers to not forget the sea of monochrome with the rolling corpses
You can never forget that, enemies then and enemies now,
Friends and the proverbial friends
Crushed and mauled into a patter of sorts, but not like symmetry, not like anything good
But something could satisfy, the ribs had been broken but the heart stayed intact, the curl of flesh that wasn't sullied
The curl of flesh, no of fire, fire!
Guards didn't shackle forward in invisible chains, sworn to service and now sworn to the cloaked figure
He existed, but not in my mind or another, oh he did though, the wrenching contortions of faces
A last scene of a play, they had not moved to such lengths, not in brimmed anger, willing to overflow, or misplaced joy that you knew couldn't last.
Only in the final act, the point, grinded and shined to perfection.
How odd that when perfection sweeps around, it is the pinnacle, respect is earned but perfection is more, respect yes, but a rule over the minds
Perfection would be repetition but not artistry,
not a flinging of the agile spired fingers, but of the gun and the cry.
Vultures and vengeance, intertwined like a basket, spoiling the meat, at least to them
you consider the ratio of you against them and you see a discrepancy
and so the curl of flesh bursts and grows into malnourishment along with the machine in the skull
it shatters and sweeps darkness along the slits of light
Light unto darkness, hand unto rifle.
In a day and a night
And so much more than that
So long it resided
A quiet forlorn hope
Slung backwards viciously by mad interpretation
and then forward by the creeping hands of time
and the receding and then a hungry paranoia
For all time and time beyond that if that was indeed possible
A cure was hoped for, not man made
to cure the froth, the waving, the, the everything and the things that weren't everything
Nothing was a relief, or would be a relief
a receding pain, or a shining plain with nothing
That would be the cornerstone, the milestone
5 miles to the putting down of bags and upping of feet
But what after that?
The promise of peace, not from a violence or a pursuer
but the mind and the nervous heart
the bass and the strums and the tightened irrational woes
But isn't it ironic how a feverish need to escape from worry causes worry itself?
A circle unto a brick wall, the wall seperating fantasy and reality.
I told it, myself that I could
No one else involved, just myself - how it should be
What beggars we are to contemplate the grit and the dirt and the organic form crawling between the gigantic bodies above
And try to promise ourselves to change and adapt, to grow external claws when we need somewhere to hide, and internal claws to hide away
To scurry into the void, the mind then becomes bent and now almost certainly broken now it has come to this
It is one need only, the desire to want company but it feels as if military companies toil on down into the dripping depths and indeed if men could walk down into the human mind, to the thoughts that aren't spoken, what would they do - run - or - stay and view it, in all it's shot and misfire.
Oh, the promises are so complex, to fire the cruel manufacture with it's smoking goodbye as if to say, hey I caused this, see the trail, the trial being sometimes elusive, what was promised the receiver of the bullet - no really - what was, the splatter throwing it all into confusion.
Nothing else at all except death, what more?
I did this short thing whilst I was sitting around on the bus for like 5 minutes, just wanted to see what your views would be on it. Layout needs some work but I didn't have long(was done on my laptop hastily, thus does not agree with an intelligient layout, damn you rhythmic motions of bus!)
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