And as my other self does the business; pushes the keys and fills the tank; I wonder whether perhaps we’d all be insane if it weren’t for the voices in our heads; the black and white beads of silicon reeds that connect our ears to inner eye via leads to the machines in our pockets stitched delivering the goods from creation’s microphone to cathartic limbic zone through traffic bars and subway stars; through mothers’ arms and superstitious charms; voices uplifted to create or destroy our joy; our preconception; our childhood toys by rust consumed.
Perhaps we are all insane and that roaring in our ears is no traffic jam but rather the void calling us to awaken from where we sleep at the wheel of that awful leviathan cliff edge bound.
These thoughts bring heavy weight to the one who pays the bills and bites his nails in financial angst while his limbic self flies free on the wings of the shamans’ wailing through stereophonic filtration and digital delivery from all that is mundane to all that shines – plankton gleam at the corner of the eye, or motes of space dust scattered in the monolithic night sky where the critical mass of the human mind balancing yet on the scales of the join-the-dots fish that traverses the sky in a blaze of contradictions and lunatic fringe.
Heavy weight the standing columns of ancient stones arranged just so to collect rising moon in a cup of cold cobbled corners where tribesmen curled in foetal fear the goddess’ wrath to behold.
Gravity’s wrath at those who would fly on feathered construct and mind unhinged by belief in that which cannot be corralled by the feeble muscular frame on ape descendant madman by the gods declared.
What music here; what drum-beat double and heart-beat heat the reeling stars in trance begat?
Perhaps we are all insane and that roaring in our ears is no traffic jam but rather the void calling us to awaken from where we sleep at the wheel of that awful leviathan cliff edge bound.
These thoughts bring heavy weight to the one who pays the bills and bites his nails in financial angst while his limbic self flies free on the wings of the shamans’ wailing through stereophonic filtration and digital delivery from all that is mundane to all that shines – plankton gleam at the corner of the eye, or motes of space dust scattered in the monolithic night sky where the critical mass of the human mind balancing yet on the scales of the join-the-dots fish that traverses the sky in a blaze of contradictions and lunatic fringe.
Heavy weight the standing columns of ancient stones arranged just so to collect rising moon in a cup of cold cobbled corners where tribesmen curled in foetal fear the goddess’ wrath to behold.
Gravity’s wrath at those who would fly on feathered construct and mind unhinged by belief in that which cannot be corralled by the feeble muscular frame on ape descendant madman by the gods declared.
What music here; what drum-beat double and heart-beat heat the reeling stars in trance begat?
Title from The Shy Retirer by Arab Strap
You know that I'm always moanin'
but you jump start my serotonin
2 comments:
i went to the lunatic fringe once, i enjoyed so much i decided to stay...
good thoughts..
:))
k
Beyond the Fringe of Imagination or Consensus Pop Mainstream Normal Moderate Conservative Progressive — I seem always to be viewing from the middle of no matter where, when or who I imagine myself to be … looking at what or why. This post reminded me of the graphic that is missing from my latest post - as always, thanks
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