The curse

Born within a snake skin

Lured by its reflection

Mirrored through the zombie-d eyes

Antagonizing imperfection

Coordinated by a blow

ISOMORPH

 

It’s a bubble, hollow and warm. You crawl in it, walk in it, naked or not, when you’re a small child.

It’s your home, it’s your world, you’re always in it, lucid, round and light, no matter where or what.

if you want to grow, the means is a touch, and when you want it smaller, it shrinks down to your size.

No more a kid now, you’ve blown your bubble larger, making a balloon of it, bouncing up and down the ground.

exuberant and alive, living in this balloon was, surfing the earth and the skies, landing on others and other’s as is falling in love.

It’s so fun you keep touching it, making it so large, like the world itself: bouncy and round, vast and full of charm.

to the time it’s too large, you cannot see it. Not seeing it, you don’t touch it, you don’t think you want, you don’t even try.

You don’t try, and you don’t want to try. Don’t want to try and you forget. you forget and you die.

class-ified ambition

 

If I had the sun
I would charge you all none
for the warmth,

my cold mind wouldn’t have to stray
while my numb hands do the routine
in a cold winter’s night

G.R.I.E.F

 

There's this little fraction of time in between the moment you know you’re not asleep and the moment you know you’re awake.

There just might lie the last frontier for salvation…

drawers of memory, salvador dali, 1965

boBe‘s Jay

chapter one

It's just a disguise and it's jut for the beginning, and until the rise in the salvation day it will not demise.

you're just watching a mask and it's that rigidness you seek to watch.
just like how you're talking: "politically correct"

inspired by: pro anarchists recession inside Xian

The Description

 

…then you feel

you’ve descended to something you used to think of
but never were

or if so,

soon was gone off you

so you can’t walk on no more.

not lived,

not loved,

can’t walk on no more…

so you sit

and you squeeze

and you shrivel down and down

till you’re so less than living in terms of everything imaginable

not lived or loved,

and less than life…

a dead man alive,

the world doesn’t concern you…

Ballerina in a Death’s Head, by Salvador Dali, 1939

The Persistent Memory

There there…

It’s either this beguiling masochistic joy,

inscribed by the history of man,
propagated through generations
in the body of cultures,

or it’s just the human grief,
which is not known he needs or not,
deserves or not.
 
But again the trick is,
whatever happens in life,
makes it worth living.

or not?