Waves of limpid lime green crash through collapsing capillaries as cold, static echoes reverberate through glass-splintered scintillating suffocating synapses ignite fiery forgotten feelings for the warmth of her chloroform kiss...
He waits for a sign and holds one he can't read, on an empty street corner. In a sterilized cold world where emotions are kept in jars with labels no one can read. He waits, in a world where the only truth is what you believe and if you've ever truly seen beauty it seeps through your dreams like a vengeful specter. Viciously carving through cavernous, condensed conduits, creating crazed consciousness. A figment of imaginary responses, reactions embedded, deeply ingrained in nerve endings. It s where you once kept the secrets of the known universe, at a time when the words you spoke were yours. When you shaped our cosmos, in your likeness. Before you were and before the bright crimson clock collapsed and bonged beautifully into the dark.
He's kept in a cold lab of 'beauty' and 'truth' in a jar, on a shelf, in the light, labeled with words no one can read. The sterile lab where misunderstood things reside. The one talks of bending all-space, everlasting peace, the dreamer, the artist, the virgins, the martyrs.
He waits for a label, to understand her. He waits for a label, to reassemble the symphony, in the dark room; at the end of time. He waits to call about the great procession. To call upon the fates and the exponential expansion.... more »