This weird trip I got after watching Jim Morrison, the movie with that sexy dude in it....I think I go off in a tangent. LOL
Reznor and Morrison and Inspired Poem of Hate-Love-Hate
What created this windmill?
They create a machine.
It deludes the individual from the rest.
An art, a test? From the medium of sign and symbol,
A social unrest comes to all, so whisper wordlessly of how you are seen.
This windmill, this machine creates much of nothing.
The painter of hue and the sweet fragrance to our senses
Is sunless and renders me senseless in prolonged forethought.
I am found blinded by both sunlight and night.
The eye of the great sees all,
So with this blinding, some color themselves in a prismatic fight, that reflection.
In every visible shade it is invisible,
Letting the white truth be stained with color
in the myriad of a dream’s wake.
The waves break and the tide spills into the sand
While groping the land.
In this world there are so many.
Small triggers,
many people,
From the colleges to freeing bees,
to feeling and the feeling one sees-
every walk of life, flying or swimming-
blood types cold or not, will die one day.
Yet our hands are still grasping at the wind.
Our vanity is hit with air.
Strange. Appropriate. No one there.
The only wolf is the one who dares be a sheep-
how many have sought to control the weak?
Can you imagine how many boasts of original form, screams of pride, have we seen now in our brief reality?
Surely it is weak to believe that strength was wolf, or sheep.
The both die, dependant on the other to an end.
Stay original, true...
Someone sees all, but I know it is not you.
Make airy machines, make us breathe it in and believe it sin
Not ours, until the very end.
It's not a question.
We become human when we escape;
our egos hurt with the dirt of our bodies, we decay with time until sand, as do the legacy.
So the air is not mine to see with or understand,
how can it see with human eyes, and feel it's only me,
but I know it's you-
I cannot see through trees, although I feel the breeze, and both; which one sees, which one knows?
The sun is a fire, a surface of fire to an inner temple of atmosphere,
dwelling, shaping, causing, with fire and solar sound;
thin, spheric and bound.
We are small fires on earth, but incorporeal fire is our rock's innermost essence,
So why must atmosphere pain the presence of my own-
like pain that exists only when blood is brought to the kissing air, beneath the cut of razor.
What is the cause and provocation?
This is the question;
you, me, or the medium by which we choose to attest power and differentials through death?
Curse or the despair that there was none there?
What's death?
Sovereignty, only despaired because it cannot be controlled.
And when dead, the image and influence become hard to manipulate;
The force is ethereal and the illusion still permeable.
So these machines, beautiful prisms, reflect nothing of themselves.
Black is all, white is without,
how little is color given by sun without gravity to keep hue, shade and shape bound?
Shape and color are such a delight,
So I wonder without sight at what creates sound and what of touch?
Is touch and sound for blood only?
Do trees feel, do they hear?
If so, they hear do they grow in certain sounds, is it responsive?
Hotter the suns surface, louder the sonic wave thunders, until spots are seen in orgasmic expulsion.
Life kills all, except the organism without blood, heart or mind.
Trees can live forever, and watch forever destroy the clever, the quick, the wit and the soul conception-
Pay mind to the anguish of a smile, it that hides something in another.
Infinite despair of lavishing air, I drift to destroy your needless kiss.
A lipstick trace leaves me with a dirty mirror and pale lip.
If time is always now, as is always understood by experience, graven we all are with such knowledge.
I hate it though, because I see it's end and how it begins to grow-
so easy to manipulate now for others.
I wanted meaning, not deciphering
Stop the assembly that disassembles the joy of united senses-
ears, eyes, hands, scent, touch and please don't manipulate it-
to say it is foreign from me.
It is mine, but you may design how you please.
I walk among the forest, and see among the trees.
So release your insects, control weak blood, and count your deaths to a bloodline.
I am weak as well, as if I knew a thousand deaths to tell apart from my own;
the one which one must always face alone.
No kinsmen carry me on still backs of breaking wave,
nor hobby horse ridden to war and grave.
Oh god, we know why now-
but let's hear us cry now.
We understand that no wisdom lives with the embrace of man.
Only worship and idolatry can.
Can we cry now, when we see why, now;
the wars of the soul have been imbued, embodied, so to deceive power.
Who has not glorified themselves?
Let the ones to cry aloud be able to hold judge and not persecute.
For what is judgment without persecution, the worst pride-
An aloud affirmation of power denied, recessed by another.
.... a wound that is living, it is as a vessel of existence.
It can still point, blame and confuse.
Just as a writer, the tale, and her muse.
My pen is as mighty as the fallen glory which gives the burden of story,
a resentment worse than eyes seeing death, no battle raiment.
No crown, no crowd-
All the louder of loud cries.
I hate the tale teller of salt and of flies.
Crap of Inspirationless Drivel from last year's bad affair with madness and despair
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