Seashore

It is like wearing a bag of memories, a jacket of reminiscences, a horrible realisation, an abrupt reminder, like a thief in the night sneaking into your mind and flicking a switch, turning out the light and bringing in the dark

Could we bring ourselves to forgive ourselves to spare us the bitterness, stand aside and let the battle past, and forget this pointless struggle of self-improvement in the face of the hollow selfish soul lurking in my heart

It was better to be hopeless and overawed than underwhelmed and disappointed. Stranger still to shine a light like a stuffy fluorescent headache dulled by familiarity, aching for some feeling from the static buzz, an exhausted frenetic energy that drains the warm life to slip through my hands to return years from now when I have nothing better to do.

Is it in my mind to weigh my actions, to weigh my thoughts, to say whether I am an animal who has fallen or an angel who has risen, tripped and fallen in the mud, trampled underfoot, the path unwinds, the leave withers and dies and falls from the tallest tree.

The ocean heaves, and the waves crash, the seagulls soar and squawk. A white coagulated soup or scum tips the debris on to the shore, the heavens break, and the rain spits. The wind cold enough to chill your brittle bones.

Small comforts to lift the apathy to clear the lethargy, small crumbs like cakes spread like grains of sand across all the stars in the known universe. To be unaware of the flesh, to recoil at the turgid breath of another vital spark diminishing in the gloom, an expression always left unsaid, an emotion - an exposition. A moment of clarity. Another turgid tired day 

Immortality, it is a piece of driftwood that floats to the shore. Beauty is eternal, we thirst for the blood of the living. We have walked through this world for all the ages of time immemorial, Death is a grey veil which drains colour from our eyes and all we see is the endless night. There is a small significance, a little victory, a moment in time that we can consider precious. It is a vessel to another world, a strange dimension which transcends the meagre senses off mortals. An otherworldly lust consumes my thoughts. It is an empty boat that is washed to the shore - wreckage broken upon the harsh rocks by the endless murmuring waves. 

A reflex is a ripple in the river that flows down to the sea, a motivation, a thought, a desire, a refection from the sun dapples on the sparkling champagne bubbling and overflowing from the internal mechanistic mind that has nought thought of society, or other, but is cause and effect and need like and empty stomach that needs to feed, or a cocked hammer that needs to explode and ejaculate to ease the pressure on some reprobates throbbing balls, like Motherhood and survival of the fittest leading the animals down the path to the slaughterhouse, The ignorant roll downhill off their own volition, the slaves most at ease wearing their chains - our heartbeat is their drumbeat, row row the boat gently down the stream.

Arise! And for a moment enjoy the bloodshed, engorge on the blood of the slaughtered, break their fucking faces and smash their fragile putrid spines, stamp them into the earth so you can take their place and stand upon the mountain top and look back 300 generations to the subjugation of the earth and the people within the regime, the pyramidical hierarchy, the god-kings still rule untouched by the ravages of time, an unconscious thought disguised as a utopian ideal, an ideal, a zenith, betrayed by intrinsic imperfection.  

It is absolutely tremendous, stupendous and magnificent; horrendous and malignant, the tumour of time, the hunger of visualisation, the disappointment of realisations. An impresario masterfully mimics the chaotic thoughts ruminating - Circadian rhythms, my instincts honed to the ephemeral tide of strong opinions negating the possibility of truth in matters of ethics and morality, and does not matter, nought not answer is required, there is no ultimate truth other than the intrinsic proof of raw physicality rugged tooth; uncouth and waylaid, unfortunate  in the demise, conspired, outmanoeuvred - a conjecture beyond unforeseen knowing eyes, radiating feeling and life too strongly, like an eerie for conjuring ghosts into the world of the living. Alas, for sooth, look to the east, look to the west, the North Star rises and the southern sun falls. Arise, the arse of the sun blinks like the morning looking at the same old shit on my phone like yesterday stealing my hope. Drinking caffeine to cope with hyper normalisation of insipid time melting away forgotten and twisted in memories and falsified by photos and videos. An existential realisation, a final acceptance, that magnificence is impossible, the tepid light reaches through the cracks of the forms like the sea eating away at the mighty rocks.

Take a dirty lump of sodden sand in your hand, or a walk through a shitty bog in your brand new trainers, lie down beside the nettles and smell the putrid odour of there late summer death throes throwing insects into a dizzying orgy of decay, or stick a lump of coal down your throat and dream of dying because it might be as easy as being chemically high, or at least having your feelings chemically castrated, so you don't look to the side, and don't look down or up and wonder what accident of birth denied you the high life. If you could stand upon the ledge and look down and wish you had the courage to jump, to endure that momentary excruciating pain, to believe that you could would be released into paradise, at you tried to raise your broken arms to pull yourself to the surface only to be washed further into the deep, or watch your broken femur jut out from your ripped jeans. One last animal moment, one last overpowering will to survive, until your hallowed mind is carried into the everlasting firmament that is the collection of human minds ensconced in the eye of the needle of some fabulously distant, forlorn and forgotten unknown star.