Basic Rumination In A Rubber Band
Too precious to be expressed as an illusion, I corrode the oblivious nature freezing time to an ever melting image now nothing but a sickly drama of synthesis locking me in a whirlwind of hysterical laughter.
by Leon Moon
Colours yet to be breathed and tastes yet to be cemented violet on iron-clasps swelling with blood shake snow on the copper valleys contriving flesh, the smell of rotten breath is the only remembrance of disgust — even this is what those whom you'll strike dead in the morning call an artistic ideal.
This is the place I never wanted to visit — and so I am.
Like the dawn, the fits of laughter will bring us to our knees and we will pray in a landslide submerged in the fluctuation of tears creating infinite ages inside the backbone of a millisecond, the rehearsal which lights up the endless night.
Those shadows who reflect your fears disappear, as will any sense of self, or at least the will to exist as something worth perceiving, the atrociously magnificent caricature of someone else's prodigy.
Check the clock. — No one else breathes here.
The foot soldiers hum the hymns of street pigeons, the kind which always manage to snap their necks.
Don't be like them — they don't know they're children.
These people died before they could ever be born.
Beauty, beauty, beauty why do I still pretend I'm young?
Who else knows of the blackness setting behind the Sun?