The Backs of My Eyelids

My cyclopean eye is clouded,
but if I could just be like Jack
and climb to the apex of a shrouded mountain,
only the burden of tin pots on my back,
my eye might see if I could be celibate from society,
its goals for my existence,
and opinions of how to live piously--
nearer consciousness?
I don't know.
A fast from mirrors and screens would do,
as I am so fake, dolled up,
hypocritical shrew.
I know damn well that I've sold myself
to the Bank, thus the Devil,
all around the lost and dishevled souls pull me so far way.
In them My Eye sees neither consciousness,
nor subsistence.
Keep digressing from this needed day,
and so I must accept penance.
Inside flies and flustered air bubbles press converging to benign tumors and minds, pounce and zag, the whole place sags and reeks of excuses, gusto gusts from here like air, transparent, disappears...
into pockets of thieves to their getaway Car, couldn't peeve a burning star of gassy combustion, they get high from the suction and seize the day away eye lids vacant nothing left, the soul inside his body bereft of any place to express itself, except for Space or Hell, down the Hole again (does it disappear?)
Then it reappeared...there. In your burningly vacant eyes I see and now don't see blue and electrifying, you think death by freak accident is mystifying, but what did you expect WHEN IT IS ABSOLUTE?
I suspect the solution won't ever come to be
and that this is the one True case where we lost energy.

26 July 2009

Kind of an experiment.