hey dude, that's my blunt and shit

                             


Hidden agendas have maintained their weight,
And this banter, always too soon, never too late,
As we have hidden in pasty artificial light too long,
I can hear heaven blowing their minds for a song,
This is a year to sing about, indeed, Trump our prez,
Disguised in masked insignificant decisions, so they sez,
Business man to a tee, but just an old fat fuck to me,
Not even that rich, apparent, you see.

We walked through the pine forest, young, forever living in the memory I still hold on to, looking for places to kiss our dreams, in enchantment with magical truths hidden in the veils of consciousness. A creek, barely running at all, from that hot summer, ran next to me, trees, arms in love, swinging branches, faces, talking forms of lunatic youth. Now the tendency to live in this scene, holds on to my vision center, where my third eye marvels at the creation of imaginary lusts, never seen, but felt, and closing the door to put all that nonsense to shame. This may sound a little discouraging to the twenty somethings, but it gets worse, much worse, physically, but the authority to now comment or even muse on mortality is justified with experience, and ages of beauty in their eyes, having lived like a rock star, an academic, a square, a student, a salesman, a teacher, and seen all turn to dust again, as it always does, but legacy is in the words saved for prosperity. And I have the tendency to drift alone inside the taste of sweet marriage with the evergreen forest, just behind my house, a hill, more of a mountain, with her double, transparent figure, in my outward design to grab this thing again, and move it through the canvass of my choice in illusion, for under the umbrella of any omnipotent being, the deception of choice is apparently too obvious to see.
There was a third figure among us that day, for some time, passing through us, lighting up the bedrooms, where we would leave all to shame, as the practicing crafts remains upon the wall, hanging upon a coat rack, aged man, paltry thing. Turbulent gyres of visions of the world and spirit, in between the lines of the sponge, soaking up moisture of the past, to wring out on the mirrored reflections of the prismatic self, always hidden in mystery of what you are to this world of emerald tapestries, perforated with light from the August skies, the most troubling time for all miracles to ponder existence every now and again. I wake up to the grand illusion, and paint my mind according to prescience to follow these old dreams to wherever they go. This could be anything you want to believe, but lucid clarity may not be hiding any truths. Hold the ears of martyrs, thorns and talking about the shadows seen at night, this becomes a sweet pulsar jangling in guitars, to the way back home to some Irish meadow, spread out to the sea.
I got so high that it didn't even matter, in those days, this day, indeed, I spring to foot in a distance from that old guy, he and I have parted ways, this is a new cast of characters, yet there is always that guy in every bar from the past. He'll be there too, don't you worry a bit. I have some old fans of mine who are still out there, who used to get my writing sent to them on their emails, but that was an interesting time for me, it was practice, not perfection in the lifetime of an artist.
I believe we have been shaken by the strange resonances of events since past, and as we proceed into dislodging the food from our teeth, a new momentum is reaching a new pinnacle of song and dance. Ministries pissing down our throats, continuing impossibility of paying back debts, holding one thing to oneself, and then showing your friends something else. This fragile way of living, holds hands beside honored hands. In the shit show you say is your life, you may never catch sight of the Son of Man.


Which is why I grabbed her by the pussy, and proceeded to engage, in a terrible ordeal with a dinosaur on guard, sure I will play the role, then I feel myself turning into a reptilian being, seeing this creature's pitiless timeless stare, and now that we are the subject, bitch set me up too, after I grabbed her by the pussy, smoked some crack, and danced a jig to separating the ribbons, long ago torn apart in delirium tremens. Yeah, I knew this guy, he used to tell me all the time, never give up until the fat pig sings.