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Tuesday, December 7, 2010

WRITING FOR THE GOD SAKE OF WRITING

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors
Reflections of their children appear with leeching auras
Hours rush out of days as though time is dying
And space is fading in the approaching audible necro odors
Infinity is drawn near, cloaked in robes of darkness carelessly piercing the sun with a gloomy sword of hatred to foray the speed of light, rushing with winds of agony to blow off flames marking illumination in their sages, oracles go blind, fortune tellers are mute so they’ve nothing to tell us, with injured legs they limp out of luck, the chief is taking orders
From illusive voices, deciphering unseen omens, he doesn’t know who to trust
Death is back to retrieve what was loaned to them by birth
They descended from the bedeviled messiahs, their forefathers
Now it is time to recolour their blood, they should swallow the rainbow and repaint their insights, they should repent!    
It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors
The stonyhearted suffering to passionate live performers…


Beneath the tall ring marked tree the hierarchy of elders formed a circle and tried angles with different shapes, in the quest of rounding off a perfect diagram for their forth coming redeemer. They sat and outlined the distinctive features that would determine their messiah. All haphazardly shouting out their arguments and reasons thereof: 
  “He with firearms, dynamite fingers and hand grenades for gestures that will blow the audience away”
“I say he with a metallic voice to still attention we he speaks”
“And I say he with motion in his soul to move his audience” 
“Let him possess a cashier’s passion to speak and leave the audience with change”…they went on and on with their demands hoping that no one begets a child of that kind, but to their astonishment, a soul was retrenched beyond the palisades of forever and their reminisces embodied this soul, a messiah was born. He with the spine of copper and eyes of switches, his bulb mind would get ideas every time he sees light. The bulb would light and he would get ideas of a new set to charge momentum into his audience and move their hearts whenever he performs. But he had a mission to complete; his birth was an insult to the elders, thus leaving him with no choice but to pay for the disgrace, it is the most rational thing to do, to justify his birth. 
Trespassed the high gates enclosing the fortress of unseen bricks, pillars of nothingness holding up the void that was meant to roof this shelter, like an orphaned serpent he sneaked in through the cracks of the absent  door, entered the house painted with colours of invisibility. There lived a man, a tellurian with a soul that has never touched the ground, a man that had defined his existence as a solid nihility, a man who loathed the world and constructed a neon asylum in his head; in times of suffering he would hide in the maize passages of his mind…his mind...his mind…
His lucent psyche, the prism to light; he would slice one beam into seven coloured light rays to elucidate those around him and paint radiance into their minds, but to his sad reality they did not exist. So he would sit, suspended on that rocking chair moving to the future and the past concurrently, morphing nights to days and days to nights as the chair rocks back and forth, with his thin eyes rooted in the dead stem of an old wise tree, now killed to serve a page’s purpose. He sits there silently hugged by the compassionate arms of solitude, scribbling shape to his earth, scribbling matter into his space, he would sit there as God before the seventh day, and he would create. The ungoverned hand swiftly moving with fingers clutching the pen as a shovel over cemetery soil; he would create a portal away from this life to his death and find refuge in the images drawn by his afterlife thoughts. Father to his hermit nation he would merge ages and weave images of euphoric tomorrows with the beards of the sage he is in his imagination. It is only through writing he could smell life from songs of birds decorating the horizon with melodies of hope, hope for the sultry summer rains to purify earth with joy tears from angels that have witnessed her aphrodisiac bosoms during her wet seasons, though time was still frozen in the breezy winter breathes, he would see the rain moving from earth to heaven carrying prayers of the aqua worshipers, they say waters heals, dipping their heads in rivers hoping to wash off impure thoughts from their minds, all these were the vacant tales carried by his writings, the imaginative fiction that crafted a novel universe for him, where life’s sufferings are only God’s times of having fun with his servants and nothing really worth moaning, a universe were death is accepted as part of life and not used to install fear into people indulging in their hearts desires. He would write himself out of reality and realize that his dreams are also a reality only condemned by those who have mares for dreams.  
From a distant land the warrior came, having kissed his flawless elbows and promised sacrilegious phrases to his God, the lives of the village children rested on his palms, the future kings and queens with cloud characteristics to reign supreme in his land in the approaching equinoxes, the perpetuation of his people was the reason he was born, his mission to complete. Yes many follow Moses day in day out in the quest for ceramic tablets with a list of purposes to give meaning to their lives, but he’s out shined crystal by far, it was as clear as the photographs of oxygen on an A0 canvas. He had been born to the land of movers, the land that prays in tongues of body language, where silence is appreciated long as motion is shouting leisure to open eyes. 
A nation devoted to actions and oblivious to the meaning behind the acts, Mission statement: “We have been empty tins, shouting our foolishness to the gods in times of sense and silence; we resorted to this empty dance and lost all sense. Now you, you have been chosen to go loot sense out of scribbles of the madman. Your mission is to bring back sense to our nation” commanded the village totems, pointing the messiah 
He stands there in the emptiness of the writer’s residence; the house decorated with empty spaces that were believed to be shelves of his archive, he stands firmly with his fluorescent warrior ego glowing with fury and passion in the aisle of this mad house. From the depths of his glowing spirit he shouted “I am a warrior of motion, the messiah of agonized voices, I speak silence with oscillating postures of my vessel, the house of my never resting soul. Reveal yourself!”  With a trembling rage he said. In return all that was said to him was not heard, there was only silence…and nothing else but the fury inspired pulse of his heart chanting songs of struggle, crying to escape through his throat. The annoying fingers of impatience scratching his back, boiling chest, words are now evaporating out of his mouth, you could tell be the appearance of the speech bubbles “What are you!” now his sharp eyes are collecting water from his tormented mind “I said reveal your identity, what on this breathing earth are you!”
After numeral fractions of seconds nearing a minute a voice came carried by the lucent hands of sound, from the unknown fields where the gods play hide and seek, a voice was heard, “I am not, I am as residues of your past thoughts, your perception of me embodies my soul, only then do I become ”…
”How sick are you? Do you even refer to that as an answer?!” savagely uttered the warrior of motion. “Reveal yourself and meet your long determined doom!” 
Learning that the warrior had been driven by flames of hatred and the energy of conflict, the writer humbly spoke “Only bliss resides in a spot previously inhabited by ego in my mind, so your fury is just a weapon of suicide to yourself, inhale serenity now and witness the wonders of being still” a smile could be heard spreading itself on his face. “What is it  that you seek from a solid nothingness that I am?”
Astonishingly this time no silence was heard, fury partially faded and this came from the messiah’s mouth “If you are not and yet you’re part of us tellurians, what is then your sole purpose?”
“I write. What is your mission?” asked the great nihility
“I move those who are fortunate enough to see me, through channeling I walk with their minds to realms of visible gods, the gods that have chosen motion as their token of worships. Who are you trying to help with your writings?” with words compressed in a vehicle of sarcasm, he asked.  
“I don’t write to save and change lives, I write to stay alive. I don’t wish to entertain anyone, I don’t dream of having disciples nor do I want to be celebrated. My writing is a bridge between me and the gods, I write, they exist. I write, they become, I write and become one with them”
“Well I have come to burn the bridge, I want to perform, I want to connect and be one with my audience, I want them to feel me, I want them to remember me after every performance!” fury came back only this time tamed by sympathetic flow of tears, sadness became the invisible vacuum that sucked ego out through his pores of discomfort, without the interruption of the writer, he proceeded “I have been commanded to come here and loot off you your writings, so please, you have to help me, my existence is an insult to the elders. Grant me your scrolls”…
“It is only my text you will take; you cannot take my writing even if I wanted to permit that. I’m afraid your elders have long neglected the art of writing and went astray with the joys of crazing the audience and the beauty of fingers yelling snaps to their pseudo lines punched out of context by blur imagery constructed from clichés and modern consumer language. You see writing allows me to fly, performing sends me back to the lifetime prison that is this body, this body is a predicament, I want to fly”  
With no conclusion or whatsoever that usually marks an end to most conversations, emptiness took its place once again…then there was nothing but writing for the God sake of writing.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

THEY ARE STILL_HUNTERS



Hunters of the unseen; they have hearts walking iniquity forests while bodies sleep partially silent nights. Nights governed by howling sounds uttering the language of beasts claiming territorial dominion of the dark sky. They are hunters; beings sending forth their souls searching with flaming torches, refuge in the midst of the hideous terrestrial mind. The mind; the wind playing devil’ stirring hand to the tranquil waters covering sorrows of the terrestrial’s heart in the lake of earthly desires, the very mind that has kept terrestrials in the darkest hour of a fatal winter night, though the sun chants light over shinny foreheads of the unseen sky gods, mind created monsters hiding in the empty passages of nothingness cluttering the atmosphere, the great source of the terrestrial’s fear; the unseen. From between the wretched thighs of the non existing dark witch of the unobserved, fear of the unknown was given birth. Words passed mouths from all the corners of earth preaching oblivion to believers of eternal death, slaves to ideas of hell being death’s only aftermath. Throwing their hearts where no thought can reach; they are hunters of the unseen.

Hunters with bodies chained on death raw chairs while souls chase mind to the planet of lucid dreams. Toes tipping silver lining hopes of being set free from the torment of their grumbling hearts of earthly desires; they are hunters. Arrows bow to sharp points made by loud body language yelling truth to lost eyes, eyes deafened by hand gestures speaking antagonizing tongues to silent mouths, ears feeding on last notes of a rhythmic heart pounds. The universe is trembling with despair. Only they can hunt and kill the hopelessness enveloping the terrestrial’s divinity in the cruel claws of the horrid terrestrial made monstrous bird flying hatred and suffering winds through the calm sky, terrestrials breath now the diluted air by the painful wing movements of this flying machine. Light beams emerge in the darkest face of time. Unknown to them is a life with no grin, tears they can only imagine.  With spirits playing hide and seek with souls and letting mind observe the godly game, they are hunters. 

Follow their souls left grounded when gravity forced their shoes to marry earth, they are not of this world, they are hunters of the unseen with guns cocked by violet liquid flavored lilies to shoot roses and ordain the sun with oily flowers. To catch their prey they speak beauty in different glowing words when they pray giving thanks and honor each day, gratitude be the greatest song enunciated by their still minds. They have mastered the art of being thieves of motion; they still movements, craft statues from mobile bodies carrying static hearts beating only when fright vacuums adrenalin out glands of comfort. Hunters preying on already deceased organisms; only in death is the truth absolute. This side of forever bears only a portion of what might be true, there is but a half truth! Both sides of a story communicate only the duality of everything, darkness is as fundamental as light is. Death is Life. Even God needs Satan. The servants of God need to know about the dark deeds of the Prince of Darkness so to stay intact with their God. The Universal Law of Polarity. With eyes pointing arrows and oblivious to the point of the arrow; they are hunters of the unseen.

Their prey is captured by prayer. God dwells in the word. The word is God. They speak serenity to oscillating winds and still mobility out of space. With shut minds they gaze at skies and see no clouds, clouds hide the sultry sky with deceptions of rainy and partly disastrous weather conditions, clouds change and sky remains the same, they gaze at skies and let lenses caress the moon while pupils kiss the stars, with sight oblivious to the unsatisfied clouds sobbing darkness to wet the land with rain drops of shadowed cries. They have killed mind and became. 

Nothing is novel under the sun! They reside on milky points of the unending way and suck energy from elucidated by meteors, chests of feminine galaxies. Hands beyond degrees of 360 ticks revolutionizing time they have been around, observing their childhood enlarging spines of infant experiences to balance their adulthood, which now reads death scripted by daily travails of earthly desires on a black page, the knowledge gathered to wrinkle their old age. They saw all the growth stages. They have always been there, part of terrestrials with bodies miming all that is done by their surroundings, but forgetting not that they are hunters. With frozen minds and boiling spirits, souls are neither cold nor warm, they are still hunters. 

Change is inevitable; they cannot name. Knights with hearts rooted beneath horse shoes; they have souls of still allowing their anti-gravity spirits, flight towards the magnet of God, with chests attached to Nirvana’s heart beating melodies of bliss to sing light notes to dark tones of time and stone existences to higher the realms of life. They are STILL hunters. Souls clearing the path for hearts to euphorically walk the land.

THEY ARE HUNTERS OF STILLNESS.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

LETTER TO PHOENIX

I'm at that point were I just want to write, not poetry precisely but just write. I want to write about anything. So today I was learning the basics of writing Sonnets, I must say sonnets are much of work that the normal poetry I always write. Now I just thought of a random thing I can run a couple of words over, then I stumbled and fell over this exciting and amazing "mythological" creature; PHOENIX. Yes, so I without any fragment of "inspiration" decided to write this bird a letter. . .
The letter reads...

Dear Fiery Bird Phoenix
You are of neither begging nor ending, the perpetual being of an inferno soul. You wear flames as your pride, you curse the poles and inhabit only where heat resides. Your wings boil atmospheric walls and let loose the shy wind to play around airy play grounds, shaking its elegant tail and letting crescent moons exhale full shapes to circulate the sun’s hate, terminate its missions of poking the ozone layer and blinding our ancestor’s sight. The fiery lord; with passion beating your heart and inspiration flowing your fuel blood. Wisdom was a solid rock, Fiery lord you have melted all the rigidity out of iron intelligence and reigned to mortals light, enlightenment. You warmed into thinkers, news about reincarnation. You were and are the after none we point in proving the eternity within time, lord we know they will return because you do. Death is but a change of apparel, yes you taught us. Death is but a restart to all the monotonous scenes of the undirected play we act out. In awe we shout; miracles of the instant rebirth just on the act of death. We see life rising from death only to destroy existence and build a living. Phoenix we are now familiar with tales of enlightenment, we know about Prometheus and his divinity, you befriended his numb hands and helped in bringing salvation to mankind. Storms are now cooked. Extinguishers now exist. Alchemists value your existence, lead has to be processed into gold. They have brought their coins to purchase sparks and to hell flames were sold, horrid stories unfold, truths untold, you lord, you never get old. Forever young, you have kept life exuberant, the hidden gods feed upon your smoky scent, Abel of Genesis left us the example. You are fiery o endless bird. You're immortal o eternal bird. You are of the gods.
They categorize you in the panel of mythologies, I know you not a myth. You are virtual. You see fiery bird, they don’t believe your existence but I have faith in you.
I know what they believe. I know what has enslaved them for centuries. They are slaves to ideas of what was. They are enslaved by silent voices they visualize from their environment’s mouth, their society. They say you are a myth, how mythological are their sanctuaries, their abode of shivering pillars, quacking temples, shelters roofed by tiles of predictions and deceptions. Yes they claim to have faith, but do they trust?  Fiery lord they don’t trust, lord faith is beyond trust so where is faith situated when there is no foundation of trust, mind believe lord. The say “seeing is believing” …I don’t know lord, if they have really visually witnessed what they “believe” in.
You see lord, I have came to realize that the universe is filled with many believes or rather “myths” and now mortals get to select whichever “truth”  they want to follow and become enslaved by its man made “principles”, so lord, it matters not what one believes, it’s always going to be just a myth to the next. So fiery lord, I have chosen you amongst many of the “truths” advertised as if they were new Glomail products, to me and only this time I have to offer my soul for purchases.
I am now; with flames from your wings lord, illumined enough to know and comprehend that ; there is no bad food, all food is good, it is just a persons preference, yes some may desire to eat what isn’t good for their bodies and this will then result to their bodies being rebellious to the food, yes lord, allergies.
We believe what we want to, so let us not try to feed our slogans to the next. Faith is not a trend. Not a new cool brand.
Yes fiery lord. I’m grateful of you existence and for the flaming ear you landed these empty words of mine. You’re divine o lord.
Sincerely yours
Mind


Monday, September 6, 2010

TO ME. SECRET SOCIETY 1696

I AM OF THEM. WE  ARE THEM. THEY ARE US.
They are coming to fetch us; tomorrow we will not be here. . . .

Based on the theory of reincarnation; I have found them, those of the same source from which I sprung. I am with them the Offspring of him who was, then died, soul split, new bodies formed, soul shared, now One being existing in separate embodiments. I have found him in them. They have found him in me. We found him. Now mind is the link we have to combine bodies, souls are done, souls are one. We are parallel to one another. We communicate by unseen mediums...far beyond words and actions.

I trully honor the gods in them.
They are my brothers.
They know me.
I know them.

I GOD YOU DEAR GODS :')

Friday, September 3, 2010

THE ALL

In the beginning there was the Word…
The raw material from which existence came to being.
The Word that shouted Light into the black sun
The Word that shouted water into the ocean, seas that pierced the land by rivers which gave a premature birth to streams, evolved now to taps; running water immobilized by metallic pieces of the now creation.
The tongue that spoke the language of footpaths
Translated to streets, news meant for roads understood only by avenues. Thus made sense to forsaken boulevards preaching highways and singing freeways to the silent point, till there was no way! But the Word, that created All That Is. The All.

Seconds pass minutes paralyzed by hours that skipped blind dates and jumped dark days chasing the not so strong sequence of days…weeks with wings flying beneath the brutal mouth of months swallowing full moons and regurgitating years; broken particles of decades mended by the invisible hands that built centuries holding with numb hands flames to light years and cremate eternity to no time but ashes that form The All.
“Nothing can rise higher than its source!”
Index toes. Tip toeing. Loud sign languages. Tick talking.
Fingers walking the day and running the night.
Cuff hands within the clock and arrest time.
The end of day and night, future and past.
Time: the old madman; a wizard; with the elixir of life beneath his tongue, immortal being perpetuated by the unseen supreme force with an invisible rope pulling to the east and unattached arms pushing to the west, to maintain the infinite agony in man’s mind.
Punctuality is the new devil and man has lost kind.
Space hates time, now matter has melted into mystery.
Misery has befriended joyful lips and now all you get is a fake smile.
“If you think your life is unfair, you can take mine diamonds are forever a dream
I found peace in the dark, so I speak dime into coal till I see it shine!” spoke the walls.
The also can speak you know, as much as they hear.
They heard when the word shouted stillness into their rigid bodies and unshaken they remain.
Mountains that obeyed the word and even this day they cast low shadows in bowing to The All.

“There is nothing else to define, confine, bound, limit, or restrict The All.”

“Answer to the great question. How did all this come to be?”
“The mystical moment of creation. How we all would die to see!”
Words of paranoid clouds yelled to the low self esteemed sky.
“Every night a star is born!” responded the shy sky.
And from the fabric of life a strand is torn.
Father Universe is slowly getting naked, clothes abandon outfits, forsake costumes and ditch garments it’s apparent the death of apparels. God hides beneath the invisibility cloak.
Clocks hit noon; Sky slips into her black dress with blushing diamonds. She’s got a date with a male: tough shoulders and soft knees, with no directions he goes by the name Destiny. Never has he fallen victim of any short cuts.
Pilgrims have died on their right paths, left luggages lying in truth fields; sunflowers that oiled their hearts. Now their cracking fossils form his body parts.
“Hear me retards! Every event in your life is predetermined, so trying to fight me like a circulating rumor…is pointless!”
By the hand that wrote you into life, the very hand that painted you into existence; your destiny was determined.

All you have to do is follow omens. Be one with the clan of mortals praying with their heads rooted in quicksand; the fast and reliable transportation medium of prayers to the deserted gods; the underworld messengers of balance to celestials.
They hold in their sacred hands magnets that glued Sir Moon to Madam Earth.
They are the source of gravity. They are gravity.

These mortals pray as to be granted the ability to access visions of an old man’s eye, reading omens, angels fly holding injections with royal blood to pump into totems.
Tokens of the absolute, answers to solving problems of x-axis so we don’t have to ask why in the mental plane short is the opposite of both long and tall.
“May the united verses grant us eternal wisdom to comprehend The All”

They were sailors polluting the content water of the sea with shouts of: I AM GOD!
When in actual fact the truth dissects perception and all pretentious acts, directs lost ship to accurate relations, so both interact with tranquility and euphoria is intact. Hearts beat with bliss mimicking dance of insane insects.
In actual fact man is just a part of God, his soul combined with the next and all that is within the circumference of the universe then forms God.
God is not a content of one soul, but all souls are contents of God.
God is all that is…

The Word_Universe_The All.

CITY OF THE DEAD

Grab a plant; place it near your nostrils so you can hold your breath. When walking down passages of torment, an entrance to the Black Nazareth. A castle; with walls bleeding hope through its crevices of death. Here the rate of death is not equal but exceeds that of birth. Occult hang spots juxtaposed temples, all construct CITY OF THE DEAD. Brighter thighs beneath street lamps prohibit light so darkness can spread. Deliberately mute preachers so the name God can end.

I’m a child of the spoken junk, suspended at the centre of this gigantic yet clustered city, with tall buildings forever growing like hatred in half siblings. A place were to some floors are ceilings to the ones under. House over the other, your above neighbor steps daily on your dreams.
I say high, she says low and indeed me and her get low. Every time I have a job, just for a cup of sugar she volunteers to blow. The sun dies, then resurrected.

The next morning. I say high, she ignores me since she is already high. Abide by the laws of this town. Last night was just that. And today between us attached are no strings. O CITY OF THE DEAD…
The walking dead, with bandages covering their forever wounded egos, perpetually affected by the unseen issues bruising even when the wind blows. Look at that one, she’s so hot! Please keep your eyes off her if you don’t want flames on your eye brows. Windows; a quick escape way out of life and sometimes are used for bungee jumping. Traffic as magical star fishes rushing to brighten the liquid skies at twilight in the below river banks possess more people with empty pockets but with treasure in their pirated personalities.

I’m sick and well I seek a wheal, drink mother nature’s tears off her fading face. Earth curses the day she gave life to this place. I can’t drink tap water because people tap water by pissing in the dam so evaporation impregnates clouds resulting to rain being a bustard. A fatherless child. Trying daily to find in every man a home by sticking his formless self to their clothes but they quickly get home and tumble dry him off, down the drain cause it rhymes with rain. How heartless.

Everyone here has replaced their hearts with a shiny spherical metal, a coin. Put it in their pockets and witness them bow and become your servants. O CITY OF GOLD…Let the truth unfold, your oblique stories be told, lose your deceiving mask, let people see your eyes; windows to your soul, man left of them are just frames, no glass, your soul has escaped, running chasing wealth of this world. Death forever haunts your inhabitants and die they do. CITY OF THE DEAD

Joburg is a ghost town; with phantoms on acoustics at night hypnotic serenades, expensive lullaby your path to sleep so your tomorrow is already broke. Evoke the lord of stupidity on cross roads cars as ginipiks chasing static carcasses they shake hands with death, it was a mistake the driver did not see me I was in black, yes mistakes do happen, man even mutants with their sign languages sometimes on words they choke. Provoke fallen soldiers, who fell while sitting with their backs on the ground, call squads of kids that replaced their mothers’ roles with the street, forever shouting for help but with God their discreet. Breath in Breath out, they breath the same air since they lungs glued together, sniffing the colorful substance. Death invites them to dinner and come they do. They dead! And promoted to the ghosts that eternally haunt your nights with nights of dead horses running over the king that porn’s his queen in the castle before the bishop. Check mate! You’re dead! CITY OF THE DEAD!

JOBURG MY JOBURG. . . . .

PERSPECTIVE SHIFT

It rests on the night's palms the life of a star. Fist of the dark sky clinch within it the star's life span, a life with no plan fetus that generated from no sperm, plant with leaves suspended on the face of the earth with no stem, a manuscript inked with no pen.
It is short the life of a star, dies due to light dressing up the abdominal portion of sister earth. We nomads of light wake every morning moaning the star's death, every evening celebrate the star's rebirth, weep while observing the lost daughters and now with sons of Seth, casting wishes upon a star's death. Blind as to see that; it shoots not the black, sky but its own chest.
- PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT -
Cease wishing upon shooting stars. As they are those who's illumination never caught your sight and now commit suicide to capture your attention. SHIFT-PERSPECTIVE

Silhouettes of eyebrows pushed to form shadows when hitting the wall, slapping his face are contrasting spectrum colors of the shy light within the pale moon, pity he cannot witness the joyful foot steps of light rays dancing on his face. Its a disgrace to say grace with eyes wide open, he is not subjected to that filthy taboo token, his eyes are forever shut, leading to emptiness that now fills his heart. A blind man dreams not, for dreams require one to have visual ability on both eyes or even one can do, well a third eye doesn't count. He knows not the skin tone of his ugly wife with a smooth skin textured hand feeding him every night, the sense of touch betrayed him! A blind man dreams not.
- PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT -
Do embrace what you do not have, for that might be a blessing in disguise.
He enjoys the view of the sea and see when H walks to O, that very moment when water abandons the sea to inhabit the blue skies in the form of clouds, he finds heaven in visions he creates by stretching his imagination as a blanket pulled to cover all four corners of the earth, a blind man is free from the visual predicaments that have shackled man with solid chains of perception, man imagines only what he knows and already existing. A blind man sees what he likes and knows nothing but the beauty of his own imagination. SHIFT_PERSPECTIVE.

Confused by voices forming this silent soliloquy, words bending the equator on earth's belly. Thoughts are untouchable with characteristics of mercury; hands build gestures, shapes the idea like pottery. Balance the scale of emotions and thoughts as to surpass equilibrium, crack cranium. Roughly sketch her image, with her lips on the minimum and hips on the maximum. Yes, let your pen sell an illustration to the blank page. Now only one voice is heard. Alright, let yourself be the switch and her be the light, with this illuminated pen do write, with a sketch on the right. The precise image of your Miss Right (pardon me please, for you females Mr. Right). The wise ones did say; with your mind your reality you create. Imagine and let your mind reach all quadrants of the universe, with focus on your thoughts you're bound to find him. Then with all you are, love your Mr. Right.
- PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT -
Turn a deaf ear to the voices, unplug they cords and mute they vocals. If your love is that Great, why don’t you choose to love Mr. Wrong to the Right point! Trust your love to wash his ugliness to the handsome point. SHIFT_PERSPECTIVE and love the wrong guy till he gets right.

In a restaurant while on a date at the edge of a leap year calendar. Swallowed after chewing and failing to digest exhibits of that chicken with a shovel, managed to create a path just beneath the highway so it didn't cross the road, but was killed by death.
She gets stomach cramps, heart burns, inferno melts all her chakras, survives solar plexus, fingers intertwine forms a solid nexus, the night's wind on her skin paused all her involuntary reflexes. With his hands as bandages and her the mummy, his voice in her ears altered the set to some Egyptian fantasy.
Unlike the food back at the restaurant, she was able to digest his words, when he spoke: Forget the poetry I'm an MC, so let me wrap my words around you while we embrace the beauty of the sky with its glittering million eyes, stars. Let us kiss the night bright and have the sun for all the 24 hours. Let us with our love embrace the cute nature.
- PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT -
Pokes his finger, clears the soil at the cross point of the roads, the tar surface. Draws with the fluid from his finger two pentagrams and invites her to rest in one, with her head on the 1st corner, hands and feet on other corners, he does the same. Tells her to forget everything even her name: empty yourself of all your contents and let the energy of love run through you. He does the same. Now fully aware, look at the sky, see it changing from light to dark so to reveal its beauty, the stars competing by shining more than the next, others even jumping trying to capture your attention. Look at the cute nature doing all that, going through that much trouble just for embracing your existence. SHIFT_PERSPECTIVE. You don't have to embrace stars, they embrace your beauty.

Disclosed are temple doors, sound becomes so loud that it is not heard, one could hear sounds of ants mimicking the human language. Time for prayer.
The two garage doors beneath the eye brows are pulled down. Shut visions, so that one can concentrate on their words to God, log in to they prayer and never disturbed by what their eyes see. Since automatically eyes send messages to their brain even when the mind is blind.
Close your eyes when praying so that you don't get deceived by looks.
- PERSPECTIVE_SHIFT -
The utterance of words: OUR FATHER. Pulled down the cosmic ropes and God descended in front you he landed, but you couldn't see him because of your obsession of starring at your internal eyelids. He stood there before you hoping that you'd see him, then you got to your last words and said AMEN, you reminded him of his heaven curfew. He motor started his wings and ascended back to heaven.
SHIFT_PERSPECTIVE and let your eyes see what they see for God might just be that portrait holding carefully the wall as not to fall, that piece of ornament honoring the entrance of your guests, that spoon on the table constructing holes on the house atmosphere for microwaves to pass. . .Appreciate what you see because God is all that IS. . .