perfect day

-dover beach-

the scene is warm daylight
the mirth is thick, the horizon
upon the air; on the gates of hell bakes
sinister throng; in abyss black pits bask,
unfathomable, out in our apathy.
come with me my soul, savage is the air!
alone, from the long line of seed
where the scene meets silver-screen beach,
watch! you see the grinding teeth
eye balls through which images i, am flung,
in our cadence, mountain of power,
alpha, omega, then alpha again,
which putrid rot slowly devours
the eternal note of sadness in.

plato the other day
saw it on the TV, and he thought
into his brain the putrid rot and stink
of every perfect; day
finds also sorrow in thought
understanding by nostalgic feelings marrow.

the Scene of Truth
is now, too, in the making, round earth's core
rotten to melt a bright furnace girdled.
but now we only see
this tragic dreadful, loud, inhaling roar,
protruding, through the flesh
of the flesh-like, belly leviathan
white uniformly theatre.

uh, self, to deceive self 
to deceive again! for ourselves, it seems
to lie within us like eyes so real,
so simplistic, so terrible, so old,
hath fantastic hate, gore and violence,
pits within fathomless gloom, sodomy
and here i am as always in the dark
set right and in order of good conscription,
where we do not revere by light.

~
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, 
But the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.
~

CuldeSac

What are words without understanding and what is understanding without sense?

More about me