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“A cage went in search for a bird” -Franz Kafka

A sugar cube melts atop of your tongue, seeping through those beautifully crafted, folded, and genetically moulded microscopic layers of cells, taking all of this in. Past the tissues, into the blood, through your heart it makes your body flood. The bitter sweet contrast of black upon the neat white sheets is attracting the pupil towards its master; the muscle beats faster. You smell rationality in the breeze, blowing through the trees, into the skies through thoughts as maybes. Perhaps someday, there would be a way, tomorrow you see, everyone will be free but today they will remain in sanity. So you see – how these words trapped thee into another vortex crafted by me. Now I shall enter and show you how it’s done; a black door opens letting in a shade darker of a thing into the darkness of your being. In limp hands there lies the sword that shall bleed the veins that run the fresh blood upwards into that conglomerate of cluster fucking cells, contacting and connecting through screams and yells – these messages; A chicken without a neck is a headless fear spiralling into blindness, flapping it clairvoyant white wings in the light of the sun – still reading, still bleeding. The swish and slash of the blades makes a dashing red splashing on the clean white walls of the asylum, integrated through notions such as name, sex, number and dear Sir, what may well be your phylum. We are just being you see, a human tragedy. Equality, you and me, language brings down the greedy into believing they are the needy. Oh the poor, the balance – fuck it; love thy fellow man even if it may be in silence. The body is now lying on the ground, shivering and waiting for it to be found, by another notion, another sense of truth, to be reunited and run as far away from this sleuth. The cut pieces are lying, crying while begging for mercy from the dying. There is not point trying. Give the best you can and for that you will be awarded as ‘the man’. The sarcasm; for these are not true, it does not make any sense to you so how can this show you the new? You cannot really be serious about change.


At this point of contact everything is evolving into something else that is joint and intact.

It is this seriousness that has changed. This has to be true; the one reading all of this isn’t you? Trust your perception man, for that is all there is that is real – it determines the way you feel. The tears roll and leave marks on your cheeks as they take a stroll to the smiling lips whispering words to stop you and to make sure you don’t keep that silly smile as everyone else pretends to weep. It is the soul man, that which makes you see the things through a hole, as the whole. Now stitching all the skins back, the body feels the lack of the thoughts that made it believe it was dead well before any attack. There are no armies; none of good old Caesar’s mercenaries, the barrel of the gun is pointed upwards shooting into your skull, these fears and others such to make you rather dull. Yet don’t be surprised if you think you have woken up and summarized all that there is to test your eyes. Colourful hues, pretty blues, swaying tunes and all others such are integrated into the loons. The dance goes on and has been so since the song was born. Words of silences between lengthy tiring sentences provide the gaps for the notes to enter and to perform their usual laps – tune in and about, let it out and shout. The white walls now blurring in the background – and oh, I smell the roast, after this lengthy boast I think I must leave you alone with your ghost and walk onto something far more super call in flower mystic expedition and as delicious as the meal awaiting my throat to make it feel great. Time is too late and let us never separate or let ourselves fall down and abate the love simply to participate in the do good and don’t debate. The force is now pushing you out, clearing the noise all of this created about you while trying to ensure that you don’t catch the disease of sanity floating in the air mentioned previously. Nostrils can lie too. The heart paces down, relaxes itself and thus you. Is there a difference between the two? The ink is ending, the layers subside – the flow resuming and maintaining its usual tide. Away from this the child shall see as this whole piece is merely empty, let it be, as you leave this tube.


Come - Entrance to touch the pSkies