Tasteless Thoughts

  Recession into the lofty inspiration of all things yields a new reading of self-sacrifice that craves more attention than I dare to present.  Craft-work in the Devil's hand is unbound through endless taunts felt through my spine.  Inspiration runs deep in my thoughts and extends in the drippings of sold souls.  An image of an idea beyond conception is all that appears.  So, it will be described in full detail:

  A white desk door presents an answer that is lukewarm in taste.  Our head is turned as a struggle shows, between a cat and a mouse.  The mouse is determined to manipulate the cat, which has fallen in love with the mouse.   This creates confusion on the kitchen-top dance-floor that is used to scribe their actions through parliament.  Nevertheless, their eyes widen when the answer spills gently into their minds.  Then, great disappointment follows the grave, where there is but only a gray toned woman quietly weeping for the loss of the question.

  And, eternity is to blame for the cursed causes of the end to all strife.  Yet, with the bitterly sour milk that comrade cat and mouse both gently suckle, there is something.

あした (Tomorrow)

  I, am disguised by a mask in a darker shade of red than has ever been seen by man or Beast (not to say there's a clear distinction these days).  The lasting lingered drought of a DAY that will NEVER arrive is all I see.  The strife of two melodies acting out on one instrument; the chaos of hope; the Audacity of high fidelity.  I can't hear you now, and there's a fog this morning.  Knockin' on your door leaves the spare change stolen again!

  "Doctor, Doctor!  Heal my soul!"

  A woman can take any shape for the traveled path, but who wanders in these dangerous days?  It's so damn bloody my eyes are red with envy and green for desire- meta-metaphors mocking... Nay, mimicking the minor mirror whose mind melts merely with the mention of the sublime.

  "Don't lose your mind just yet, it's not even noon."

  So, in a whisky haze the doctors work through their pain, but my mind's exposed thought just Bleeds.  Every night the screams of pain grow louder with the fluxed inaction.  loving Narcissism and bastard Children bring me to tears when their souls are exposed and there is Nothing.

  "Fatalistic mimes...  They can't speak their hearts desire."

  And that's why I weep.  Nothing is ever said.  Who needs to, the heroine is strong enough to drown anybody.