Seeking what? I don't know, the look on your face at snow. My amassed pipe dream of cataclysmic cartwheeling consciousness contorting the face of God, or the Devil, I'm not sure which yet. But the yearning, the learning and the burning forever passing on like a gong song rocked bomb locket socket tossed into the rocket. This dream seemingly endangering the living, sieving, breathing of being. The untouched bunch of losers we are and dare to go too far as to say, this day, this moment a miracle among miracles the virtual reality insanity of pander to we. Un-bought sought across land and sea the dream, weaving into this or that moment so untouched by the graces of space nations and rations taken out of a basement. So poor and untouched the retch of the stench, beaming on through my being of seeing, seeing. The trees sway listless by the demands of the breeze, so immaculate and stature attacked, the defining rhyming moments of love and grace so spaceless in the beaming dreaming of we. The stinging defining moments of wholly glorifying divineness awareness aware of this trods on through the cleft bereft stinging clinging of the maddening divining plan. The sand in my eyes though times of lies still sticks likes prickly pear juice in the sutures of my deadened core. The roar delving on through the gong song rocking rocket popped socket lost locket in the demands of the rewind of defined purpose. Rehearsed and diverse from nation and key, we, stacking like action attack pack rats munch on the carpet on seething believing, teething to the suckle of the air. Bear bones and all we stall on to the wrong aperture of seeing this dream. This dream. So crumbling and wasted the dream seems. Delving deeper into a deepening of being so sufficient seeing the dying masses attacked backwards for this dream, that seemingly reprehensible thing. But dig, this day is so great, the night even. The tithing, rhyming and surviving. So breathless an inhale the stale meteorite crust breaks right off and this ever loving covening present is birthed into a mirth of orange afterbirth once more. And to be remissed is the tongue touch grace of space ladies sweeping the incoming and outgoing space cars into respective lanes of dangerous galactic presence. The essence is of this,... to breathe deeply, sleep seemingly, and die frequently. Stiffening the collar on the knock off bomb scoff t-shirt. Righteous fight this in the parking lot for free, seemingly indicted on your own causality. Reality stumbling on into the daylight, while they trudge back into the dark night of the eternal soul. Coal in the rivulets of their Christmas. The seeking, the constant yearning to burn the air off your chest with the best of them, sinning, winning, being everything in this thing of being. Crying dying for a manifestation of question upon the altar of being, seeing. Dying, trying to surmount the efforts of a once dead regime so seemingly alive. The striving for immaculate oneness in the tongue touched orgasms splitting the seams of reality, we cry on. For song and more bursting effervescent fizz on the stiff whiskey and coke, the toke off the bong, the spliff of the seams. Dreams daring to rupture on past the amassed pipe dreams, we singly spirited on, fly for more.
