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An obscene picture is always within a masterpiece,
A masterpiece is always within an obscene picture

A biocentric hymn
An absolution to the gods of aetology
As an ill accepted and hopeless philosophy
A dyslogistic saying bound in eclat harmony with the devil
As the gods of causation evanesce.

Emancipate the eutopia locked in the throes of subconsciousness
Bask in the glory of the understanding of our futile hands
A two fold reversal obit
*With the yarkened pacates at the conclusion of the potent zephyr

Scribed are these words, as a final attempt to make known
That borne on the accord of environment the muses sing
While the mind toils as the shrewd medium
Getting the credit though being a pawn of the universe.
*allusion to eastern front

No more blue skies
Quarter past eight o'clock
Numb throughout my extremities
And thinking of old times
Like when I was not this 'I'
Back when we'd go flying through the night
Laughing at our insignificance
While humoring our worth by doing adoxal charity.
Our motives were the wick of enjoyment
And quite simply nothing mattered
Nothing could go wrong and nothing ever did.
But now, at a quarter past eight on some wintry night
We are not flying through blue skies
They just aint' blue no more
They too busy making a mask out of charity
And selfishness
To remember why they be blue anyway.
So we, being the snowflakes
Always dancing
End up swirling round through the night
With our eyes fixed on eachother
We love how significant we seem to be
And that is our fuel
Which lights the fire that melts us all to drops in the ocean.

Dancing illusions

Across burned fields lit by blue moons
Dancing, playing in the silver light
A nymph paints a picture in the sand with her toes
As she ever so gracefully prances about the coastal shore.

At the edge of the world I have come to know
There lurks an invigorating, mystical fog of the mind
Where the unreal comes alive
And me and my carnal needs fade into illusion.

Deep and blue, the mighty Atlantic cloaks certainty
And leaves me to my memories�
I have heard so much of what there might be
Mermaids and sirens, sea monsters and scoundrels

Though on the sandy shore on the other side of the burned field
I see what seems to be footprints of the nymph that I thought lived there
But now, in concrete realism, the tiny creature lusting for its existence is gone
And I look outward to the sea waiting to see a monster or mermaid

Perpetual Motion
Sitting there like royalty on its throne
With its eyes focused on oblivion
While its body remains motionless.
An invisible flame bursts forth
Accompanied by a furious hormonal lust
And the beauty of the creature is lost to a myth.
The carnal mind raises its scepter
While wearing the garment of a mystic diving into to the spirit
Love is born.
Clinging, now, by a double edged thorn in the flesh
That acts as a carrier as saliva is donated
Through the individual ending embrace.
At the height of passionate oblivion
A mutinous organism removes the thorn
Now bound by blood
And going back to the throne
The extra pillows are set aside
Making room for a tizzy of motion.

Stag-Beatle
Raise up the trumpets
Sheathe the swords
His majesty is on his way
And deserves to be adored.
Through the nights fury
Stars fighting stars
He has emerged victorious
For he is ours.
With a mighty 'heave'
Ra carries him across the sky
For he was dead long ago
And still, survivors are afraid to die.

A self portrait
How long has it been
Since the light shined through the veil
And the shadows danced upon the walls?
Brilliant spectres of every genre
Made of pure white, but look black
Like the insides of ourselves
As for the light, That is myself
And the spectre,
That is what I see in the mirror.

The world

Like within the without is
The building blocks are the creation
And the creation is made like the building blocks.

Mundane Matter

We are celestial
For at night I look to the stars
And see a model of myself.