Foggy Window Man

There is a time before man where he is not There is no difference and no man can tell And so to figure out what the point is You have to imagine yourself already sated By your utmost fetish of infatuation To have come to a point of boredom with it So as to suppose something asks you why Why any of it should be permitted For in essence what a man does is He comes and sees To but take satisfaction in his work And to afterwards Find pleasant rest in his slumber Each man does the same With a burning need that blinds him And so the speaker asks for the listener to suppose A state of mind similar to that of post ejaculation Where what you have done and the chaos of it Now has a sense of order only in memory One sees why and how the dots are connected But then now to suppose yourself sated One finds that all of mankind are the same From the most ancient of times up until today Much work is invented up from the coffers Of the curious mind that worships deviousness We sing and laugh and all cry in the same way About things either going or not going our way But to be moved by an art work And then to move the work of art You see the pounding heart that is man Steaming in the forge of crafting Lost more within thoughts of self Than in the canvas Written in the warm breath of the first mover's Created by the adding thereof to the surface Of a cold window A place of condensation Where the pondering finger trails It lies the foundations of the contours Of an image mirrored by rhythmic tapping Of train rails rolling away refracted Like that of the neon ruby rays Left in the tubes of street lights that once were Yet seen again Showered by wild shouts and sirens Accompanied by honorable men in black suits Glistering leather I see that shines wet from the rain Hearing the end coming closer and not further away

CuldeSac

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

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