140 CHARACTERS AND GOOD TASTE BE DAMNED!

gently washing the rain falls as sludge into the crevice of an unwashed mind it stops looks around entertains the thought of checking out...
decides to stay a while there is no certainty of anything other than self which is why solipsism is so sexy to this fellah and wants to ....
ignore it most of the time as he'd never get anything done other than think about how far this conspiracy goes how deep my own mind plans...
it's own paranoia and then he remembers sex and these feelings go out the window along with parts of religious dogma and rambling...........
incoherently into the night and out the window.

Kismet is not Orange, But you do look marvelous in it...

Along the corner he traced his step, backward into the marginal silence of the night.
Clanging bottles. Bursts of laughter. A car horn. A siren.
And there was a silhouette, walking in a gliding, dance.
She turned and became a burst of shocking color.
A night-blooming flower, graceful and succulent.
And there he stood a flash of laughter, and 200 proof energy.
They paused briefly, for each to warm the other.
A crossing brief, tender, and light.

walk

along the virgin rock,

no highways have come to be,

patient schist lays dreaming,

centuries per second.

THEN,

at once awakened,

set aflight, then...

falling, falling.

Now,

metamorphoses of sand,

dust,

starstuff,

dream,

a second in a day.

AmplitudeAnteMeridianModulation

There is a station in the distance that only broadcasts pain. I follow it's broad highways into the wee hours of the mourning. Who hurt you DJ? Why do you keep playing 'One Headlight?'

But, that's not what you are really playing. You make pain seem like it has only brushed up against you, like the wind, silently in the night.

You smell like vanilla, a bruised and broken open fruit. What the masses call 'plain.' There is no truth in the hive, only propaganda. In truth, vanilla is the only edible orchid. A rare sustenance amongst pure desire.

But, that is where I hide; in cold trivia. I often ignore the warmth that I feel. Now to reach and confidently pluck. There I could, finally, separate myself from the vine.

Somewhere... maybe there.

Downstairs lies hope. In the dream of space and the final of my frontiers I look down. Solitude is hopeful, loneliness a curse. There is an edge so sharp and fickle, I must stand on it, baiting the ground to swallow me.
-"Fucking chickenshit earth!"
It doesn't take my dare.
I walk back to the stately hallows of my manor and sleep until my eyes are sandpaper.
Then, I drink, until I cannot walk.
Then, I furiously masturbate, until the seed stains every wall.
Yep, here's to the end of the world.
It was such a big one.

my thoughts on a lady who just crossed my thoughts and who has been, for quite a while

So, ha; you have bought into it.

My perversion of wrapping my mind around you thoughts, to keep you arguing, specifically with me. To see you arguing with anyone else brings me low. As I suspect that their wits do not match up well against yours (lalala, they be dumbkopfs), but I still see you letting them win. It's obvious to me. I can't stand it.

I once had poetry to describe you. This is what is left: poetry, (as I am not quite sure what will or might change). We disagree so closely.

Realizes that October is a long time ago and that the rain has started to come down.

October is gone and so are the leaves of a year, the pages also turned and spent. They are now dirt striding under the heels of boots, gone adventuring into spring.

I wonder about the spring and its dawn, now that its dawn is here, now.

Before, 'twas just its hope, and now it's the reality of the alchemical reactions of composting, the nitty-gritty of nature; although today I thought even deeper, folding space-time into itself.

This maybe as much reality as I am willing to unleash unto the world.

I'm in a box of mine own and of natures making.