There is no protections as much as there is no happiness.
Surfing down the face of the of darkness, demons twisting
In the wreaths of seaweed and the faces of fear,
In the sponge from above there is the sheer terror
That water will wipe away the sun the from the earth,
Plunging into the deep deep locker below.
Dreams turn to terror like days on the water turn to nausea,
The undulation of the vast ocean of emotion swings
The pendulums of insecurity wide and far,
Bouncing across the bow, from stern to aft, when all of the sudden,
In deepening dampness of the sharp shine of the summer day,
The foggy bottom of the great below and the spun riddles of suffocation
Standing like somber wall flowers
Paralyzed underneath by the vast seas of sadness.
The waves pound against the shores where landlubbers stand.
Is there a fear that keeps them perched like sunflowers
Before their own descent beyond the Fibonacci science?
No - not here. Here there is the unscientific sequential passing
To the nether world where the sunflower seeds dry and fall
So there to does the flower itself as well. But why not plunge?!?!
Why not fall down into the dirt and the muck and the awful stench of compost.
The land buries its many fears into the worms' work.
Where the the slinky centipedes and the bustling beatles climb
Over the organic carcasses without a word or worry.
The demolition of the earthly spirit is a quiet processional;
The requiems of all souls certainly find the eternal silence.
That is not for this moment - where we contemplate the slow and unemotional
Parade from big bang to big bang.
A never ending carousel upon which ride the eternal footman -
We, the yeast in their beer,
We, the ants on their meats,
We, the dirt between their toes,
That is not for one to contemplate here.
That is only the atomical bomb of nothingness.
That your own universal composition is just a brief intersection
Of electricity and good fortune.
No, not here. No, the Earth is not aware.
But the below, in the depths, where the sails and the surf
And the tide and moon and the tears and the hopeless -
They all collapse into a dark liquid obelisk that towers over
The water's surface and then, unlike any fallen tree that crushes the body,
The wave pummels the water below. The long tossing beneath the surface
Bleats the air from the lungs,
The oxygen from the capillaries,
The spirit from the heart.
There is the epitome of despondence -
A massive tube of salted water foams at the mouth
Pulling towards the rabid spirals beyond physics -
The water pulls and pulls and pulls like the baby to its own umbilical...
Where on the sea floor there are no scissors,
There is only the unending attachment to the terror.
The asphyxiating awfulness of the profoundly sad world above.
Death is that sleep, perchance to dream. And here is only the rub.
The sad unending tale of yearning - the begging for breaths and relief
Only to find the crushing emptiness of the cold ocean.
II
Pinned to the bottom of submerged canyon
One looks above to the wash and tumble of the incomprehensible world.
Sharks and dolphins spun in a mortal coil,
Twirling bodies like yins and yangs
The light skinned bellies blending in to one another.
Monochrome spirals and sparkles for a distinguished eye.
Fish which prey upon other fish which prey upon other fish
Which prey upon other fish which prey upon other fish.
No one cares, talk not of the descent,
Simple troubles for simple frenzies (no one cares).
No the crags and hollows of the cavernous ravines or the darkened palace dungeons -
There is still no escape, there is no rationale, just a darkened mystery of the pain itself.
As if questioning is not enough, there is no question that goes answered
Except for one constantly answered riddle: when will the pain return?
All the time again - all the time again.
The answer to silly questions are not so silly as they are terrifying.
How could simple confusion conjure the darkest twists of the desperate breaths?
Remember those times - when the words are breathy escapes of panic?
The unending paranoia of anxiety in the fearful breaths that come.
The simple answer would be to collapse like a sunflower,
So proud in the afternoon sun and so ashamed
Its bows its head in submission to its own brief time.
No, that is for the landlubbers, the smiling cheshire's
Dancing from myth to myth but never really attentive to the moment.
They are not submerged and caught under the sea of a rotting nothing everything.
The endless turning screw grips at the threads
Piercing further into that once unpermeated membrane.
The stinging sensation as the vessel turns
In the creeping and sweeping underwater currents,
Tthere is just the push of just dissatisfaction.
The waves above are only the symptoms of the petrified life
Resting on the ocean floor. The exhibits of sadness within the the oceanic museum
Where the world is not one's one. There is no privilege here.
There is no comfort. There is the tossing torments from above.
Tsunamis that threaten the landlubbers above.
That is no comfort and the darkened world from below is past the saddened collapse
Of the eternally giant wave. The wrecked depression of the soul
Thrust down beneath the waves where the sadness is a way of life.
No comments:
Post a Comment