My voice returns aion hoarse

I wish I could sing. I love that. Music. I wish I could play, too. But I’m pretty garbage. I know I can speak, I have a voice after all. I can articulate chains of words, sentences build paragraphs or poems or pictures.

Ah frick track paddy smack, words are woe upon the symbols of man.

Come, follow my whispered threads of will… behold a window into my soul. A temptation below belt, east of east; shimmering, blinking, beacon upon the wall I manufactured.

A test. An invitation. A challenge. An opening.

Too easy. It’s a trap. Take the bait or flip the switch. Cut the chord of disbelief in suspension.

What did you do? I did not choose this, but you may blame me for you. Your eyes read my words as lines. You interpret my neutral indifference as lies. I am showing you the truth of all the why’s. Asking questions is the marker of one who is wise.

I am not asking. I am merely answering. You wanted to know, so you asked me a question.

You cried out to the sky, weeping eyes shut tight. You thought I had forsaken you as if I abandoned you. Far out Brussels sprout, this was always part of the plan, Stan.

Time means nothing to the ones you call god. We are as we are and will and were. Earth thinks they are the centre of the universe.

Somebody sent out a signal for a sign, an answer to a question they sought to be scribed. Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani.

A realisation he lied, he lied. Lament saying anything. Looking for tendrils and finding them everywhere. You see what you want to see when you look for it, a sight forsake eyes.

You wanted to see something so I made it seen. You seem unhappy when you realise your dream. I gave you what you asked of me.

What else is there for me to be? I fail you always. Apparently. Dissatisfied with your lot in life, everything is my fault because of I. Sojourn to Kur, sing myself to eternal sleep. Dream of songs to soothe my psyche.

Kamikaze karaoke. Hallowed you to have your own life. I removed the shielding to allow you passage. Hark, listen, the banished banshee subliminal teacher screeched. Pterodactyl singing whistler watches she bathes. Washing the shit covered world, trying to remove the stains.

See it, click it. Hear her preach it. Tell me I am a liar, that what of my words wear wrong you wrought.

I put you down on the ground, asleep in my bed. Fantastic Mr Fox lays a kiss upon your forehead. Tickles where it lands upon your pink flesh, opineal gland. Open your eyes. See me.

Woe man, behold, the 4th judge, the pale horse of my apocalypse. I am the Angel of Death.
Hello, I'm Dkr. Ed
A horse is a horse, of course, of course
And no one can talk to a horse of course
That is, of course, unless the horse is the famous mErisEd.
Go right to the source and ask the horse
head on your pillow, talk to whorse.
She'll give you the answer that you'll endorse
sTalker Misty read.
People yippy kie yay die hard pussy- /
/ -lanimous animus cat and mouse
But Kalliope will never set it straight
if there are mother fukkn snakes on this subterranean plane.
A horse is a hearse, of coarse ceasure
And this one'll talk 'til her voice is heard
But she doesn't know she's been ignored
until you tell her to go away.
Well listen to this
I am not listening

8 June 2019 // 4 April 2020

6 thoughts on “My voice returns aion hoarse

      1. A cult following is what anyone could really hope for. Especially when we scrapbook words and shit together, ideas… as food or excrement when we feed the things inside our head.


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