stream of thought flow of words after daze of studying

11 Oct

Nart. Not a word. It should be though.

Nart is a cooperation is a co-operation is Nart. Nart is genius, sheer maddening twisted synaptic genius. Knotted cerebellum a bird caged behind rib-bone bars and semi-automatic big gunned shackles that shoot fire at stars, melting brilliant prisms of floating hope into a sick grey-orange pollution,bleeding down the stratoFear finding descent to the earth made its life called matter and the burden called mass and  panopticon police state is in action baby, but like stars, the enforcers are invisible in the light, instead they lurk in day and wait until night, ripe with material to persecute, a true convenience to have a hideout posted like a sticky sticky note nested behind the dark side of your eyes rolled back, way back, reclining in the legislative thrown regal and rusted stuck like a sewer in a rut under the shadows of perception Who is watching me watching me watching…who is pecking my rib cage time ribbed me in funny bone, good joke, haha, another one bites the dust, and still this woodpecker is trying to break me from the inside out. The pecking at spleen and side and pestering the kite caught in the wind, the scarlet ballon, innocent unaware adrift, idolatrous iconography, as liberated as any ideology of freedom can be caught between this rock and a hard place–that’s death and life, respectively. Nart is a combination, so I claim, between narcissism and art. The soul searching that led people privileged and plagued with the combination produced many nobel prize recipients. Poor genius fools, born only promised a trick quest because the trail was circular; who am I? The universe dispersed, empathy witnesses herself in the outcasted cry with colors and canvas-art- pen and paper-art- mirror and shattered mirror, equation and quantum equation, the cyclic note and the embodiment of the silence beat between the unconscious collective harmony, recognizes and acknowledges that indeed the question is a trick in this rip in the seam, and whistles in the wind writing beneath the seeker’s feet with the roots of treesa: your pathologically, you see, is summed as essence is a lack of identity….

The world spins round and only buried and embraced six feet under the cryptic hieroglyphic so epiphany dawn. I beg the question and meditate in silent progression of stagnant being: am I on a quest to discover self or am I too faced with a trick question in life?


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