The Canadian Beau of The Cardboard Sun

  Exasperation of redundancy;
sadness of departion;
guilt of hiding in silence.

 This is the strangest life I have ever known.

 Are we alive by the voice we speak, the laugh we bring, the thoughts we think, of the words we conform and construe: Faux and truth? I've never spoken aloud the intelligence compared to written words.
Those in mind shall agree.

 Father: I want to kill you. Mother: I want to fuck you all night.

 Do you walk the streets with list in hand? "I'll do this, I'll do that, later, for now I must walk the streets and make other plans." Plans of riffs, plans of rafts, tamer, for you push on and on until you sail to nothing.
Those behind know empathy.

 Strange days have found us - and in their hours we linger alone.

 Take my hand and I'll show you rivers, we'll crawl on our knees over mountains, the very first mountain I wish to conquer lays not but an hour south of here. The birth of a Kingdom, with a Prince and Princess awaiting their fate. Mother and Father; King and Queen - Wed our beloved celebration to be.
Those lives will sleep.

 I love you the best, that I meet in the Indian summer.

 Impressive show, darkened glow, itching the scratch, utter moment of distraction from the wall that speaks. It is saying, "Here is your road. There is your end. Soon; connect". In the good old days I'd sigh and cry, why and why, why...And...Why..
Those trying are closing.

 Unhappy girl; you will die in a prison of your own devise.

  "Remember my words," Said The President of the United Galaxies to the Twenty-One, "remember my joy, hold high your memories of the theatre's, cinemas, and soundtracks. A baby born, raised; brought. I want my only son frightened, fearful, and only in his acceptance of consciousness, self, and being will he gu'i free."
Those sly will hear me.

 Love me two times 'cause I'm goin' away.

 I wish there were a shack beside a river, a flowing river with trees of grain and infancy. Alone on some days, others on others.
With a typewriter for thought, cigarettes and DXM for inspiration, and an old-fashioned record player so any one who stops by may dance to Doors music. Old-video camera, why must you remain a physical aspect and not transform to part of my mind? I tire of viewing this world and not being able to share, dig?
Last monument, repeating and rotating, others do not expect much, as they wander their own - and assume the least.

 Prescribe, detox, subscribe and flip-through, like a Calendar or Leap year. Road, road, where will you show me the way of time? Alive, he lied. Wash out with soap and mud, thrown students in and taught lessons; learn to forget, legitimate and distraction. Perfect: Perfect, perfect, specimen.
Those whom de'ny are lieing.

 People are strange when you're a stranger.

Lost upon' dust'n creeks and plains, spilled air from a container marked "F-U-C-K" in windshield wiper fluid. Bury it deep, bury an' dig, fossils of the monsters from far ago. The last time you needed one was away. I am troubled immeasurably by your eye. I'm a spark, an idea, a formation of a single-second thought, and I'm coursing through your brain until...Not. Did you enjoy me for the millisecond I was stirring around, sound in your head; gently for you lay in bed?
That eye in fading.

 Marked graves and celebration, taking worth of what salvation. Expecting less than your deserved, one is to shove off the unheard. Ever of this life - always unprepared, riding off into the spot to see. From underneath rocks, ledges, pocket-books and semesters, revolving around the core at center stage. Million-dollar industries spoonfed chemical reactors and little-while misleading mindless tears and joy.
SALUD!
The shine is burning.

He lied on his open-mansion of homeroom and asylum, his roses of garden flowers and spread-out towers of cowards unable to coincide, divided, without realize of silent mind - neither did he, and he pushed away.
 With near-bent heads, a soft rest, a gentle bed next to a Motioner and Statue of Importance sprinkled last driplets of truth over his cheeks in manner and so, "Easy, soul, you are now home."

 Like a deflated tire on the highway. Never to be known. Wandering through the hopeless dreams, at night: Sailing the laughing sea. The view is far and wide, the forces are high and tall, her grin spands the entire mountain - and the clouds are like angels above. Her shoulders lead down like rivers and waterfalls.

See those skyscrapers of wood and life? Do you know I'm a living child of those parents? They call out to me in my dreams, asking to be saved.
Walking, walking, rivers and oceans vast and wide, torture society by day.
Words are quick, words be the walking stick of redundancy. That which already known, preformed and operated on man-made structure. Ch'e, yeah? Swept underneath the velvet floor and forgotten, oh - Can't submit?
 Nurse, clean-up on aisle 1971, bring an extra mop and a set of photographs. These stains are set for framing and decomposings. Sweet muse, little you, and memory.
Back then it was unique to be different;
back then the audience was aware;
back then - clean ups were simple and more confused;
all was accepted.

 Images upon images bask the rows of chairs, huddles and benches at lapped, an elapsed afternoon of wrapped secrecy. That day's over, and the one before us shields the red carpet to our valley-walks.
 It asked for a helping hand  and a walking cane, this old day wrinkled, aging, burning skin and its tangy scent burnt the nostril strands.
"Come this way", Night said, "I'll show you dust."
We took the branch and were lead a tower of a light, broken and aiming towards the ceiling of our cardboard-sphere box.
From the corner, "This is the dream you dreamt of," a spy said, "To the house of love, follow me, now."

  Would you die for me? On this wall that's been torn and rebuilt, much like the ancient structures we've based our ideals on. Burning ideals to fade in the dawn, much of the Eternal reward had given the gift of a next door neighbor, "Hello, welcome to the town!"
"Step out of the doorway, turn around, walk down the brazen path, and return whence you emerged from your Mother's womb."
"Silver-strings and silvery springs, a hope from me to you."
"I'm not very anything."
I reached my hands into my pocket, sighing to the feet below, a guilt-trip of daytime night-walking with e'panded pupils and teachers, tear-drops and amazement, a new home - a being of one as it covered my mouth with it's hand and shhhh..

 "Enjoy my greatest strength and ending" it smiled through hoarse lips.

 Shed tears, returning fears overpowering doubt and sour relations of past, old friends returning with questions, questions, interviews and questions, "what does it all mean?", I look away and walk out the door. Climbing upon my caravan, I look to the mountain I had once become a part of, and departed sweetly with acceptance -- capturing it's universal beauty in my mind one last time before I awake and walk the roads without.

 Upon the road I came towards a house with the lights off, and no one was home, much like the whole of America's intelligence. The street was silent with ecstasy, the wind-chill factor freezing and I; comfortable. "Freeze me to death."
"I need ice on my beard."

 The faintest sound of wind echoed in my ear, knock knock knock..
 Not an answer of the house.
 "I would like to murder." words said a loud from my breath, as I grabbed the words floating in the air and used so of breaking, shattering, CLANG of the glass hitting the sill to the snow.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
 As the lights are off and no one is home, much like America's intelligence, I stumbled over tables, knocked over chairs and lamps, trying to find the living room switch.
Click.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hah."

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting inside a house by the desk, ain't got anything that you want to write. Soon you're going to live. Soon you're going to live. What would you like to be remembered for what you have done? And if you're looking for optimism, well smoke away your health and feel alright. What is there to do when you've done it all, if you're constantly finding yourself against the wooden wall. Take the step out and find a constant way back home. Find your way back home. In the gutter of the street that's covered by falling snow. Disappearing and illuminated inside the passing of Earth-murderers.

 Within a lifespan and moment of truth, aching away away and away for what, what dream must be made. I see myself five years from now being want no one wants nor expected, the only Earth and world I'd need lays right here inside my own optivating mind. If I never had a true friend that'd be just fine by me. I remember a time when there was only one friend, my cousin, yeah, from my Mother's side and we departed at 14 years of age.

 Last year I was walking down the street, past an old girlfriend childhood friend's house, and the sun was shining through the gardens of trees and memorizes of scrapbooks around the cost.
Remembering the time walking down the asphalt with the sun shining clearly above me, looking left towards the sky and Earth looking like a photographic framed upon a postcard from vacation; I could not believe the sights before me as I, as I, as I walked and smiled the widest I'd never smiled. Without anyone to hold my hand, I sang songs of symphony, love, beauty and having a hand to hold. That day in the Summer spring, I had just known what I have always known - Nostalgia is leaving me cold.

 Hider, crept in the bush and made brief sounds of distraction for my ears.
I twitch my head to the left; nothing.
Staring to the sky, the cloud-filled mass of fog covers the stars,
"Where?"
In the storm, with the light dimmed.
In the war, with the spirit trimmed.
Underneath the skin, walking along the current
red-blooded white-hotted cells.
I can feel you in the air
and I'm going to inhale to breathe
soon.

 With or without, freedom and allow, no consequence as of order - result and no struckout authority-challenges, warmly accepted at birth as the precious gift brung deepest smiles. It's all that remains of a reminiscent reality never to happen in the Eastern world, a dream-world for the little one climbing ladders and jumping off skyscrapers in the comfortable, small, danky livingroom.
"Ain't it th' most cutest li'l thing 'ye ever saw'd?"