10-23-2013, 03:55 AM
As I become a red star burning in blue,
I, that piss into toilets of life,
set war against the keepers of the land;
because they don't keep anything.
Just go outside. . . .
Do something, anything.
Simply don't stay inside.
Do something, go somewhere.
Sweep the floor. Go to the store.
There is dust in the house;
and hunger in the heart of the unborn child.
When I was young,
I found an old house in the woods
full of records,
and we broke them all.
Now I know I would have wanted them.
For now,
just go;
into the uncontesting grimace of time,
the unpaved floor,
and piss into the sexless light of the sun.
Go forth,
unpretentious child,
see the many airs
and the unformulated clouds.
Whisper in the unrighteous breeze,
and stare up or down
or all around,
searching through the irrational stars.
Now there is a different kind
of house of records;
now,
there are more than one mother
to love.
Forget everything that you felt about everything
you've been taught
and all that you, alone, have learned;
but not what you know
and how to use it.
Don't say goodbye to childish things,
or whirl your words in pagan ways.
Just feel when it's hot,
and think when it's cold:
But simply think, and often remember.
Those that you have known are gone,
and all that they said was wrong.
Simply stand in the direction
of any and all future
ways.
And go there,
taking only enough of what you
feel to be yourself,
without carrying any more weight
than your physical frame
understands.
I, that piss into toilets of life,
set war against the keepers of the land;
because they don't keep anything.
Just go outside. . . .
Do something, anything.
Simply don't stay inside.
Do something, go somewhere.
Sweep the floor. Go to the store.
There is dust in the house;
and hunger in the heart of the unborn child.
When I was young,
I found an old house in the woods
full of records,
and we broke them all.
Now I know I would have wanted them.
For now,
just go;
into the uncontesting grimace of time,
the unpaved floor,
and piss into the sexless light of the sun.
Go forth,
unpretentious child,
see the many airs
and the unformulated clouds.
Whisper in the unrighteous breeze,
and stare up or down
or all around,
searching through the irrational stars.
Now there is a different kind
of house of records;
now,
there are more than one mother
to love.
Forget everything that you felt about everything
you've been taught
and all that you, alone, have learned;
but not what you know
and how to use it.
Don't say goodbye to childish things,
or whirl your words in pagan ways.
Just feel when it's hot,
and think when it's cold:
But simply think, and often remember.
Those that you have known are gone,
and all that they said was wrong.
Simply stand in the direction
of any and all future
ways.
And go there,
taking only enough of what you
feel to be yourself,
without carrying any more weight
than your physical frame
understands.