Dust Filled With Sunbeams

Cauldron desires. First instinct is to clamp up, shut down.

See saw between what you give and what you take.

Sometimes the protagonist of selfishness.

Other times you give till there is not a drop of liquid left in your body.

You finally arrived. Not worldly. But in terms of reduction. In terms of an essence.

Killed everything that is beautiful in yourself. Traded it for an ugliness that was honest.
Felt that was a foundation you could build on.

No preening. No pouting. No good hair cuts, or tight trousers or hot dates. Warfare on everything that is to the outside acceptable. A completely futile attempt at something pure. Murderous focus.

Focus on killing the beautiful, the loved, the joyful, all that is worthwhile. The things they sit upon their laps to look good to the world. To cause a stir to be seen. To yawn fucking yawn fucking yawn, I yawned once, I yawn again, I yawn with beauty, I yawn with pride, I yawn with fuck you´s and I yawn with thank you´s, and I yawn at most stuff....but when I see something humble, something real something worthwhile.....I see it.

And when I don´t I am just a moth. And I ask forgiveness. And also to the moth that I use for the clumsy metaphor. It is unmeant.

Give me more void that I may rant into it. Your endlessness is the only place suitable for my contemptible complaints.

Have the fucking courage to put whatever it dam well is into words man. Shake it off. Damnation upon damnation, and a salutation to the monks.

I remember your vows of silence and I see them noble.

They are not forgotten. What you said is not forgotten because it was never said.

You liar, you cad, you speaker of nonsense. You tapper of buttons & fruitfilled technology, where is your pipe? Where your glorious hat, with its dust filled with sunbeams? The typewriter that you don´t know how to use. Mocks you. Makes you feel worthless.

Every photo of a type writer with an empty bottle of wine and ashtray full of cigarettes made you feel empty. Like there was a stolen moment in time that someone else robbed you of. Those fucking bastards. Those fucking contemptible bastards. How dare they?

You make your self anew. A warrior. A Criminal. A Nothing. A Something. A vessel full of love or neglect or capacity to bring something that would be a wonder in itself.

And curse these words too while I am cursing. They remind me of every moment unwritten. Every moment unlived. Every moment the courage was not taken to do what needed to be done. And in all those moments you wasted your potential and what you could have become.

But then you became what you are and you find yourself unable to regret anyway. You are completely acquiescent before the complete and utter ineffability of chance. You are a saboteur and constructor at the same time. You lost your way to find your way. You had to lose your way: it was the only chance you had of making a map of the unknown.

And there are place where what ever you do is stolen. Whatever you do will be stolen from. Ha ha ha ha ha ha fucking ha ha ha ha ha ha. ah ha ha haaha h haha.

Others names put where they don´t belong.

And the endless voice of the universe screaming out in its fantastical cackle about the absolute sheer and utter absurdity and entertainment of it all.

Because everything you care about in this particular moment is nonsense. NONSENSE.

And only with that realization can you start again anew. And get back to where it was that you should have begun from in the beginning.