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Johnny Rotten · 09-07-2004, 10:48 PM

There will be no late-night phone calls. There will be no sudden appearances. She exists at the rim of your fantasy, only as solid as you are able to imagine, and that has to be enough, because you are in a barrel full of shards, tumbling down a hill. Spoon fed lies and sweetness both, you must swallow it all, because life is life, and she is she, and there can be no changes this guttering twilight of our youth.

There will be no letters from her in the mail, because she is a moving target, because she has never stopped moving, because life will never stop moving and you'd better catch up. You're falling behind, slipping in between the cracks, getting yourself stumbling lost in shadows growing longer by the moment. Follow the last ray of light to the gasp of surface, or the dirt will fill over your head like quickening sand.

It is a river, and your raft is made of the past and a present of ingredients you will not understand until you have stepped onto the bank for a well-deserved rest.

May there be sun. May there be grass underneath your feet when you come to rest. May there be flowers dancing in the wind when you voice her name, because it is powerful, and the weakness in you grows stronger. The shouting hearts and the wicked minds of men, twisted to blackness, surround the spark of your self. Evil grows a weed in the soul of the world. Evil casts blackness through the sky like hellish night spawning in rivulets of nightmare, down from the sky, midnight lightning in a sunshine blue, tears of hate trickling down from the clouds like maddened rain drops, staining the good and burning acid on what should shine, what needs to shine like a beacon to those who are losing their way.

There will be no late-night phone calls, because language is a sea of disconnection anyway--a million chances for things gone wrong, chances clutched by the angry and the lost. There will be no late night phone calls because life is a knot ever growing, and you can't make her see, you can't make her hear, because the thin thread is about to break away with the tiny snap of forever, when he on his deathbed gasps and his eyes shine glassy, forever.

Become your weapon, and pierce through the veil. Birth again, and gather the light around you.

Shine.

09-07-2004, 10:48 PM	#1 (permalink)
Johnny Rotten lost and found Location: Berkeley	A little prose poetry - Evil Grows a Weed in the Soul of the World There will be no late-night phone calls. There will be no sudden appearances. She exists at the rim of your fantasy, only as solid as you are able to imagine, and that has to be enough, because you are in a barrel full of shards, tumbling down a hill. Spoon fed lies and sweetness both, you must swallow it all, because life is life, and she is she, and there can be no changes this guttering twilight of our youth. There will be no letters from her in the mail, because she is a moving target, because she has never stopped moving, because life will never stop moving and you'd better catch up. You're falling behind, slipping in between the cracks, getting yourself stumbling lost in shadows growing longer by the moment. Follow the last ray of light to the gasp of surface, or the dirt will fill over your head like quickening sand. It is a river, and your raft is made of the past and a present of ingredients you will not understand until you have stepped onto the bank for a well-deserved rest. May there be sun. May there be grass underneath your feet when you come to rest. May there be flowers dancing in the wind when you voice her name, because it is powerful, and the weakness in you grows stronger. The shouting hearts and the wicked minds of men, twisted to blackness, surround the spark of your self. Evil grows a weed in the soul of the world. Evil casts blackness through the sky like hellish night spawning in rivulets of nightmare, down from the sky, midnight lightning in a sunshine blue, tears of hate trickling down from the clouds like maddened rain drops, staining the good and burning acid on what should shine, what needs to shine like a beacon to those who are losing their way. There will be no late-night phone calls, because language is a sea of disconnection anyway--a million chances for things gone wrong, chances clutched by the angry and the lost. There will be no late night phone calls because life is a knot ever growing, and you can't make her see, you can't make her hear, because the thin thread is about to break away with the tiny snap of forever, when he on his deathbed gasps and his eyes shine glassy, forever. Become your weapon, and pierce through the veil. Birth again, and gather the light around you. Shine. Last edited by Johnny Rotten; 09-07-2004 at 11:49 PM..