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Memoire Du Surreal
by Christopher Wilkinson
2008-04-11 08:30:57 |
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The ages of tranquillity fade, like watercolor matchsticks into the Aurora. A boar quietly stood near the station. That and this stood with him, in adept concentration. Life as a watercolor montage slammed into reality like stone on soup.
Slavering wraths waited at twilight for the vampire goddesses to munch their weary souls. The age of forgiveness was past and yet to come, like a good story that ever gets re-writ and untold. No counting the buzzards at the banquet.
A beggar could do better than a prince on the pool where teardrops of love resound their endless dirge. You said that yesterday was worth believing in. She said tomorrow was a long time. I thought it was illusory, at best.
Still, songs lead on the hearts of those who beat. “Give me the beat, and I’ll have a heart,” said the officer of patrol, squeezing pennies from lost souls. Oil greases the magnets that pull the demoralized into rusted domains, corrupting influences in.
The oxidization of green house gasses. It’s all right now, you know. The river runs fast, but the time runs slow, and what did the carpenter ever know about his wife, the one who sailed off to see a ship tycoon and left him with the kids for a spell?
The walrus had it all down. Harmonica without the piano, vocals without the strum. Idols in ancient stone pyramids reverberating the drone. Damsel bees wishing the drones would start acting like flowers and bloom.
Colors and honey, love and laughter, blue and invisible are the hues of the sky. Turn the transparent stone image into something worth the mind. It’s all in the mind, you know.
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