Abstract Rulz

Decisions, an inner collision between two opposing natures. Knowing this, I am forced down the hallway of discontent. I am generally speaking with no generality--spitting in jest, wind blown, skyward in Northern Straights.

I feel in multiple conjectures. They are imposing. They impose their tiny inhibitions on my imprint. They are fools in traps self-imposed. lines of barracudas up through the nose, dimples and whistles. They are silly surreal characters--just another day trying not to make any sense, non-sense pouring out of the disjointed membrane.

Animals and bugs un-named, unknown, unimagined. Animals and bugs unseen, unsown--living a life in seclusion, I am. Disillusion and confusion, I am. I went off to the hot springs, went down into the heat. I went into the steam to moan--alone--I did not want to be disturbed. I did not want to be disturbed by any life that I never lived, would never live. I did not disturb the hot, heady waters.

Cognition--a reoccurrence reoccurring. echoes--echoes--echoes--every faster through the tilting, close to tumbling hallways of my discontent. Constant inebriation is a short  reality away--and thank you. Thank you, but remember: there is no next time in this convoluted nature. There is no next time--

Reality is the disease of sobriety. Everything has this soil at its base. This soil grows new flowers after depletion, utter depletion.

These flowers are strange. Sick of the cure--sick of the cure--sick of the cure. More poison is needed. More poison is sought--.

Solidified natures--crystallizing occurrences. I watch the dog growl after invisible doorways open and close--. The current flows northeast, dragged down the beach in front of hot whores and great expectations. Splendid fact-counting insurance keeps the hipsters at bay--for a while at least.

I looked up into the windows of the 14^th floor. I saw myself staring back at me. Who fucking cares? Who has the strength to go through the motions anymore anyway--.winds blowing. I can barely think. I live the day each day as it approaches, as it engulfs me, as it abandons me--blue hues and God’s mental mastery.

I am starting to get comfortable in my shell though my spirit still cries for remembrance--where is my spirit anyway? Where does His mansion sit? Does He wait eagerly for past payments? Cheating disillusions mask my soul’s secret hallways...perfect peace has its say and doggedness--redundant drudgery--is whisked away--away--Who has the answer? Who’s got the damn map?

It’s so sad to be completely lost with no home to manifest that which is considered psychologically sound...no meds, if you please. Wouldn’t it be nice to fit in your mind psychologically? But then, what is the mind? Is the mind the brain? Switch before it’s too late--let’s switch all the rules around when it comes to creative stroking of the imagination.