skonen_blades (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skonen_blades) wrote2006-05-04 05:25 pm
skonen_blades) wrote2006-05-04 05:25 pm
May the 4th be with you
Love. Bah.
Line crossers and throwbacks. Populations of over worked and undernourished termites. Couch surfers and homeowners. Movers and shakers. A definitive cross section of humanity. Neon bone splints and eyelights searching, tracking, identifying. Arms that whine. Shocks arc and trip off the triggers of others. There are stances. There are poses and stares. I wouldn't even call it a gathering. There's just not enough space. Accounted for and present. Absent friends. It's late. The meat is calling with its crazy calls and impulsive pulls. Spring victims me up to gird my already strengthened loins. Dragged off to the hunt. I can see the windows. I can see the doors. Antlers poke and scratch and itch as the velvet falls off in bloody strips. Nubs turn to points. A hexagram of pentagrams unfold and open up a doorway down the barrel of a well. Light spills out like a cheap special effect. The metaphors stir. Ridiculost years of my life. Divorsilly. Graviteases me. Paradiant. Ticker-typecast. Awareness binds and soothes. I cannot split the open night and I have trouble with the lack of shadows in the day.
We are all our own prisoners.
The belief that there is one true way is the downfall. There is no one true way. Inner pieces.
Line crossers and throwbacks. Populations of over worked and undernourished termites. Couch surfers and homeowners. Movers and shakers. A definitive cross section of humanity. Neon bone splints and eyelights searching, tracking, identifying. Arms that whine. Shocks arc and trip off the triggers of others. There are stances. There are poses and stares. I wouldn't even call it a gathering. There's just not enough space. Accounted for and present. Absent friends. It's late. The meat is calling with its crazy calls and impulsive pulls. Spring victims me up to gird my already strengthened loins. Dragged off to the hunt. I can see the windows. I can see the doors. Antlers poke and scratch and itch as the velvet falls off in bloody strips. Nubs turn to points. A hexagram of pentagrams unfold and open up a doorway down the barrel of a well. Light spills out like a cheap special effect. The metaphors stir. Ridiculost years of my life. Divorsilly. Graviteases me. Paradiant. Ticker-typecast. Awareness binds and soothes. I cannot split the open night and I have trouble with the lack of shadows in the day.
We are all our own prisoners.
The belief that there is one true way is the downfall. There is no one true way. Inner pieces.
Bitter ashes
(Anonymous) 2006-05-05 12:51 am (UTC)(link)grins with a b&e plan
Re: grins with a b&e plan