Dissemination

A diamond in the rough, such a foolish yet convenient term. It would mean, to bathe in the riches of

splendor, yet to never really speak as if it’s gone you speak as if it’s know. Things are hidden all the time, all one has to do is cover it with curtains, and wave a magic wand around. In the most basic, what I am saying is that there has never been, whenever one adjusts their telescope and changes their view of space, they see the same nebulas and crackling stars, like an empty blue bowl with no bottom bottoms up take no stand or one that has already been consumed in the spiraling inconvenience of oblivion. Masochistic they scream, metaphors antenna ringed around, all tossed in there, the wardrobe that we never knew sleeping to us lie at you existed, until we looked down once on a childish impulse as if it’s nice breathing sand and saw the trapdoor glaring enchanters enchantress back at us.

So seam, it seems. And there’s a breaking in them both, snap in the long knotted length that follows the bell that follows the chiming chandeliers salute off into some unknown place. It was a simple weakening at first, then the fibers loosed loosing losing tailing auspicious, allowing for a tear of grating parchment, scattered, pieceless, into the chastising pool of reminiscence. Why does it then, wailing there’s a foal wailing float back up to the breakthrough, like a leaf forsaken it it’s amber collapse. How many lives have we given up asking I’m asking just to polish our own unexhausting greed, and to tower over the alit doorway, kneeling over to clean and kiss the bloody shards strewn all over wozzing willing krazenite  the pitch-black floor.

And so a speaker is, it might be, required. Someone to talk to them, to wave them in a chanting of you naughty filly you naughty naughty banners and flags. For the spirit, the flame ignited and burn dimly until Armageddon, shall guide our ships on an unturnable path, to swither, until only lanterns remain, alighting the abyssal shoreline with tiny dots; bright and cluttered, and slowly fading. A bleak outlook, it is, so harsh and pretentious, but a necessary one, if we want to realign the stage cosine a coil and open the glares to let the pinknives walk through, throbbing chastity ascent into our brains the hurt of drumming knocks, but terrified to peel the irises off as well, as they reflect back what they really are, and all they had been chasing in their hairy, cruel, lifetimes.  A swing must be made, I think, in the metronomes they play, the melodic symphonies senator crater punctuated by the sharp ticks, as they find their jewels once more, and swim in the subterranean ripple of their most about loving gaze.