11-07-2013, 12:27 AM
My heart burns, my eyes ache;
I've been eating too much,
and staring too long at the screen.
On a lawnchair in the living room,
drinking from my jug of bird brains,
they've taken my appearance,
making it less possible
to be seen in public.
I was born on Tuesday the 17th
like Ren Hoek;
there's a whole world of things
most won't understand:
but I'm no leader for those that follow
all the same.
But let me tell you;
though I have forgotten what I was going to say.
What I do with music is something else,
altogether something else,
something that hurts more than soothes or pleases.
A few nights I heard a sound,
a very different sound,
and though I knew at the time
what it was all about,
and identified in very particular ways,
I can't now tell you what I thought
and how I felt;
I wish I could,
but I can't.
What strikes me as strange is
that when I was a child,
God used to speak to me directly;
and now He only sends me messages
through the likes of Jerry Falwell's son and company.
And they give very bad impressions.
Though I do translate the subtle signs
He still sends me.
In fact,
what I said above is my own interpretation
of some cryptic things
I've picked up between one and 2:59am
on AM radio,
and reading between the lines
what they're saying in late night infomercials
and retro-1990s marathons.
Is it just me,
or are there several minds for every head,
while a soul is only available
when you don't seem to need it;
after you're dead,
for instance?
No. I tell you,
God has a plan for every man;
though 95% of men are simply here to test you.
And no one can know for sure
whether or not they are in the 5%.
Otherwise God wouldn't need a plan,
and nothing He said before would make sense.
95% of every human is a Tempter;
what's left over is all the spirit anyone has.
Even Christ was only working with 5%,
and that's why he's such a hero.
I sit here on my lawnchair,
in the reflux of acid passion:
my heart burning for the sight of those departed,
strutting their ghosts across the set.
Turning it off,
I see smoke rising in the darkness;
glow-in-the-dark vapor,
as if my mind is on fire.
I think it's over-heating . . .
Maybe I should stop thinking.
But, no.
God is in the food I eat,
it's He that scalds my throat,
burns my heart; illuminates the apparitions
that rise above my thoughts.
There was boredom with the tree of life;
that was Prometheus in the garden,
reaching out with his emasculated carcass
to offer a redeeming gift from the as yet unlit bush.
Horned, tired, with webbed-feet
and digitized eyes;
as Babel silently commands the air waves,
I sort out desperate images
from a tension that makes my brain quake.
Tearing out a few more angelic passages
from the diary of a mad Heaven,—
If Hell is on Earth,
and God still walks the valleys, plains, streets
and country roads in the shadow of His own design—
what is that I see briskly passing by,
casting a silhouette across my darkened window?
I've been eating too much,
and staring too long at the screen.
On a lawnchair in the living room,
drinking from my jug of bird brains,
they've taken my appearance,
making it less possible
to be seen in public.
I was born on Tuesday the 17th
like Ren Hoek;
there's a whole world of things
most won't understand:
but I'm no leader for those that follow
all the same.
But let me tell you;
though I have forgotten what I was going to say.
What I do with music is something else,
altogether something else,
something that hurts more than soothes or pleases.
A few nights I heard a sound,
a very different sound,
and though I knew at the time
what it was all about,
and identified in very particular ways,
I can't now tell you what I thought
and how I felt;
I wish I could,
but I can't.
What strikes me as strange is
that when I was a child,
God used to speak to me directly;
and now He only sends me messages
through the likes of Jerry Falwell's son and company.
And they give very bad impressions.
Though I do translate the subtle signs
He still sends me.
In fact,
what I said above is my own interpretation
of some cryptic things
I've picked up between one and 2:59am
on AM radio,
and reading between the lines
what they're saying in late night infomercials
and retro-1990s marathons.
Is it just me,
or are there several minds for every head,
while a soul is only available
when you don't seem to need it;
after you're dead,
for instance?
No. I tell you,
God has a plan for every man;
though 95% of men are simply here to test you.
And no one can know for sure
whether or not they are in the 5%.
Otherwise God wouldn't need a plan,
and nothing He said before would make sense.
95% of every human is a Tempter;
what's left over is all the spirit anyone has.
Even Christ was only working with 5%,
and that's why he's such a hero.
I sit here on my lawnchair,
in the reflux of acid passion:
my heart burning for the sight of those departed,
strutting their ghosts across the set.
Turning it off,
I see smoke rising in the darkness;
glow-in-the-dark vapor,
as if my mind is on fire.
I think it's over-heating . . .
Maybe I should stop thinking.
But, no.
God is in the food I eat,
it's He that scalds my throat,
burns my heart; illuminates the apparitions
that rise above my thoughts.
There was boredom with the tree of life;
that was Prometheus in the garden,
reaching out with his emasculated carcass
to offer a redeeming gift from the as yet unlit bush.
Horned, tired, with webbed-feet
and digitized eyes;
as Babel silently commands the air waves,
I sort out desperate images
from a tension that makes my brain quake.
Tearing out a few more angelic passages
from the diary of a mad Heaven,—
If Hell is on Earth,
and God still walks the valleys, plains, streets
and country roads in the shadow of His own design—
what is that I see briskly passing by,
casting a silhouette across my darkened window?
