The Finer Vintages of Escape

Blue, blue; a diagram for sight and scythe, burning the
incense for its amnesty, the heart is cold and
medicated; smelling nothing but the scent of apathy, a
poignant reminder of the furthering difference of
personalities in dreams and waking life.

I forget the surge of electrical thought, traveling into
spiral vectors of old mental disease.  Magnificence
displayed in spider-silk weaving detours of patterned
cognizance; teaching me virtual nothings whispered in
winding tunnels; blocked by the tribal drum of selective
hearing.

Lazily exploring cartharsis for hypnotic suggestion;
dispatching the memories of bridges over impassioned
chasms.

Beat. Beat. An overture of brass screams out the
vibration between moments.  Empty bottles clatter as
evidence to slurred lectures of the finer vintages of
escape.  Chirping pulses of fused circuits sing the
blaze of green dynamite; haunted bells and forced
dancing of the joints.

So slip we off the fuming oven to the filth of the floor
below.



[15:39|12.11.012] ©c.thom