Monday

I don't want anyone to confuse me with the truth, this is the share of the case, which my influence on the world makes me a historical figure, taking it in stride at length, they who know my secret are a many and daren't tell, not for fear of me, but what has become to wit or which I have risen, was raised, convenience of every form of entertainment, from when the days of boundless creativity now are binding creations, the kings of earth, the pen of a people, and i can tell none, not for lack of witful trend or flippant cliche, and that insanity mine pales compared to saying it out loud, and they know I've tried, but not hard enough. It's a paradox to want for better or worse, and yet it'd probably be part of sharing a question and tea with this infuriating bliss, the moon has fewer hits adoring the sun, and still anyone who knows me doesn't know me, and everyone does. Learning how to slay her enemies, studying code for learning Android at my sandstone quote as to for we all glimpse, and to know instead when my head clears of her for myself...

This throne of madness empty doublets, where many have tried to call this audience, the good and many who i deride to ofyn make the core of the earth from the burning frames of modernity, if such exists, as continents drift, as well as politics shift with points to make it bones to grind, as was your wish, as still ever still every fate over time's path to know not how to want you without station in the waking world, with poems to history, and screams at the sulphur lined clouds the heart of a fallen night sky tearing for silenced imports of useless sunrises and summer breeze, overthinking the plans of the voices and some choice to abandon soon of reckoning in the blinding of a beautiful sunset to fill my world that the censors mistakenly would be fools to never know...

The days summon this fool their brother to burn and yarn the nest of plots and ploys, to gather and give, and clean myself, gaunt and baked duly or fitfully what is the lost energies that threw me from dark horizon to this futuristic past of lies turned true, or some could say the truth of lies acting like jesters to such exists, in recent i chose to be ordained for a donation and found it free and lessons not, why is this always the case, so now l'enfant sauvage from whom thoughts are passing penance in likeness to the devils that run all hell about, am now a druid after considerations, saved lest so ovate as now, and bard as now you know, my mind drifting this must be told I've felt perhaps the times are changing and this changes the ouroborus plan now chasing thoughts to understand, but do find it shorter than an autobiography...

Maybe i fear knowing myself everyday, instinct, take the grass to your blue skies as opening the eyes of stars rest of dark are without knowing the power of the dreams they forget, with warring planets over the metaphors lyrical the empress has no empire and the scrivener is lost.

Haruspex Lite

It's taken a lot of respect to not judge those that don't deserve it, in part that the manied lost were released with more dignity and remembered with more respect than any independant thinker over the past year, or so, not much of much as dangerous as it was that being a zombie helps, possibly making the arrogant class some vampire analogy, while my own death was greatly exaggerated by their very selves on the daily. It was at some point to believe that on one side there's this great war with exegenisis thru the ratings system, and on the other that an opposition is tearing itself apart. It hasn't helped that the space-time continuum has an emulator when converting binary to trinary. 

Not having the point of order to try writing anything, on the secret shadow society that is my, and coming to terms with it is terminally unique, without the need to confess my paltry and in-valid concerns over the tides of panic that obliterated the paper mountains of fiction at the first sign of the great manic-depression, every now and again, but that the climes of climbs of clamor from every copasetic alarmist, however well intentioned, treated the previous president like he kicked their puppy into their ice cream cake on date night. They lost their shit like a golden calf. While my inspiration has been to shave my head, not convenient after the mostly-peaceful previous summer of wroth, and the laze fare ambivalent cityheads begging for broken window economic bailouts, as memory serves the tinfoil man, had been pointed at me as they ran by with tv's to feel good about the tripe they teach in schools, while warning them that my witness and opinions with even this essay, would be a history, laffable, affable without contention in being a plot of the leaderless years. 

While I do nothing, perhaps I've set a bad example changing the face of civilisation. My actions, or the would-be reactions, are too old or simple to understand why a stronger hand won't lead the orchestra. This off topic mosaic, it's my time away from writing that has hellped me obsess over the lesser shadows in my mind. 

The delay or postponement now from the lack of concentration, dividing myself to add while the multiplication seems so little of sense. The precautions to chase their tails in traffic, the absurdity to protect the depths of discussion nay insane to project as town criers when actually village idiots, and the absurdity of the overeducated grifters is, off-the-charts, so letting it go and daydreaming about Barbie hasn't made much sense, and decided to try vape after quitting six-seven years to keep from writing posts. So that happened. 

Inconsequential my tech piled in the closet couldn't discover some usable terminal for my talk of tale fluidly, needless to say but cathartic as a talking head on race day, laptop kaput, backup faulty, mini bricked, pi corrupted, tablet archaic, kindle arcane, but the phone runs a qwerty. It's really confusing and maybe this is opening up, IDK really know what the historians will say, except that I could've done more. The smoke and meditation makes for dreams and poetry, yet the memory of pattern is emotional, and the bad habits only serve the facade of impossibility, of hypothetical in auspicious self-delight and delighted illusions. 

To type like monkey, to walk upright like a neanderthal, serves little else but typing now...oh, serves little else, and it's time to serve something more than myself by the realm of individuality that somehow has forgotten to live unscathed by the cold truths. 

mjbanks@swehttamxam

Damnesty

Damnesty 

mjbanks@swetthamxam 

Into my wicked eyes the shadows sink and ravaging the walls of existence steal so many pieces of the light, what ways the comforted seek the peace of parting waves to celebrate the eye of the storm, so many as a question, like the ground below the sea is the sand of broken mountains, like the snow of mountains is the water stolen from the clouds bigger than small nations, and with the rivers the veins of the land the scarecrow ministry will be consumed by the thirsting waving grains another so yet after fact and fancy, and into the story should they overgrow, or until the harvesters. 

A postponing of disowning or transition to a start that weak and tawdry poultice of a sick and weary heart, many by the making are the lost and furious candid canids and serpent servants here to lock the broken clock in a trap of illusory construction, and in the moments that this paltry pigeon flutters the spirit of misgiving closes storm around this park, the teacup in the tornado imagining that the sun pouring thru the rain is swallowed by the darkness, or that the radiant immortal energy of the all consuming mother nature shined that silver light only storms bring, to wonder if to take a drink kindly with lemon or mint, where falling mist softens soil to wrest and wreak and wretch and writhe trees of time to toss, if all is lost the sound louder than the known chaos. 

The single drop of insanity on the forehead, an ocean wall down mountains falls with winter in the echoless song and strength, without the cold of space but still to watch and players make this timeless cost as clouds trounce the dalliant daze of complicit malaise, which makers merry would not tarry trace however many eggs upon irony’s face, echoing only in minds the oldest days that were never just and throw their waste into the rust, push and waste against the machine with the final mind, like lights in the water, as time unfolds lightning into pillars against the darkness. 

Collectors of nothing and as much was shared, in the echoing conspiracy took even more, now to the ossified remains of ancestors, inflated filth abundant too thin to fertilize, and with all of this redundant there is too many to take, in your ties to see the breathing will in their least be the most, when there is nothing else to say.