We are living at the tail end of the Twentieth Century,
where imagination no longer has the capacity to try,
because intellect no longer can keep up,
with barrage of pictures and words invading.
Last night, went looking for reason,
because nothing made sense anymore.
How far are they gonna take us,
before their push becomes too great,
when we wake up in the morning,
and everythings gone,
everything worth defending,
stolen from our eyes.
In moments of marginalisation,
on the fringes of the fringe,
beyond the safety nets,
turn paper into clouds,
turn blue notes into sapphiric glow,
release freedom from falsyfying structure.
Fear a dark mystery, a primeaval disorder,
all exits are the same, that help regain composure,
trail of into glistening strands, as time stills,
slows, stops, trips backwards, leaps from image to image,
takes refuge in language, the politics of bardic dream,
when the ink has dried, cross all divisions out.
Blossoms take a long time, to bloom in the fog,
the beginning sometimes follows us in the end,
but never let them know, that you can remember,
because if you can twist sound into speech,
your still alive, tuning bloodshot memories,
into vapour, as substance follows shadow,