by Борислав Митков
Slipping on thin ice I just can’t grasp the way tenets of lies somehow get through to your ears and decieve your eyes
Messier 33, The Triangulum Galaxy
Dreamscape torn apart by art, and a gun. The virtual video game character shot his rifle and ripped apart the quantum dick-space which caused instant madness and tears of violet blood to flow from my eyes outside the soviet prison block in this strange winter world, as the soldier shot and broke the space around me, I hoped he was not an agent or soldier of celestial heaven or any god or gods above, as I would rather be ripped apart in the chaos-rift or be brought to the insane and surreal peace of purgatory. So this gun brought an end to time and space of this universe…might as well march off on an Odyssey-esque epic only to fall into the fangs off the cliff of strange mad words into the gaping maw of the scarlet Cerberus…Face the glory of a breaking brain.
I can’t seem to write a lot today,
despite what you might think about or see my posts
I’m listening to nonsense, and dreaming and screaming inside my own head
where the dread of the shadow forest in my mind lies,
telling me all sorts of ways and threatening me with knives.
Something about it all doesn’t seem right
as a mountain rises from the titans back
and the slavering beats erupt from it’s core
by that I mean it’s chest
and the creatures rip apart the citizens of the desert city
and I wonder to myself
was it worth it?
Was any of this worth it at all?
The battles, the dreams, the doldrums, and folks of daily life
What does it all mean in the end of the universe and the way of our lives
mortality is a fickle thing lad,
so go ahead and take what you can…
Dealings with locks,l picking them and breaking them constantly in an effort to steal your dreams. I cannot help but wonder why they bother, your heart is as black as mine or anyone elses. As we stare into the sands of the violent shadows, we can talk over tea and a handgun. Where the philosophy of your beautiful anarchy comes to life
Stragglers behind me and champions in front, where is the middle in the urn of my heart where I keep my organs like an Egyptian pharoh. Bream me in two like Bane broke Barman for the good of my body please, so I can be broken and wheeze and smoke weed everyday for the pain to go away. So go ahead and leave me like this sitting in the middle of my average abyss.
Let’s just stay here, where the blades of the past can no longer sting us, so we can begin anew, scarlet words that can sing of our dreams and tales and all are memoirs. As the city dances and the lights begin to breath, we can dance and play. The way we can lighten up the night with our joyous passion and the chains of depression are broken…
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