Life creeping up, like a persistent maggot, eating through the havoc with a deadly appetite, reminds me of the side effects of holiness: such a divine place, such a lonely place, except when the suspicion of martyrdom arises. I so like it here, I so hate it here, I am checking on the spelling but not on the meaning, I am devouring the last crumbs of sense, hungry for confusion, lost in the disappointment of a miracle still pending, trusting that my inner voice will stop banging, praying that the noise will make sense as some tune, finally, hopefully. Life creeping up, musing on the nonsense of torture.

Singing in my cage, an exquisite noise muddles to the background of an essential instrument. I take directions, go with the flow, enter the holly of hollies as a whole. My sadness is played in minor, my soul speeds on a chrome arrow, piercing the waves of a resonate rumble. The major, perceived as a cloud of white noise, covers the song of my silent singalong. And from minor to major, the flickering sound is wildly orchestrated when no one's around.

They say whatever the weather, the soul is the means and the means is the message. So I am sending a big fat dove to them, repeating that whatever the weather, the soul is an infinite storm or a blinding sunshine or a roaring tornado or a calm indigo sea, and whatever the weather you have to travel wearing the same clothes, dragging the same old pair of shoes, wishing that "summer" and "winter" are just a way of defining the traveler's mood.

An illusion of light flickers in the background / As the funeral of sores transcends through my pores / Generations of doom make the most divine boom / And the teardrops turn into bells / Sounding out through the ex night the end of all sorrows / Marked in the unshaped intensity of tar-black eyes / That start to see the world as it is / Half perfect, waiting to be fed / And lovingly tucked into bed

Beyond the shadow of art, like Siamese twins joint to the hips, me and my broken arrow / Staring ahead to a bliss never met / And there, as the brown turns to grey, the ruins of affection affect every inch / Through the itch and the scratch of an overpowering grudge / The chords and the noise intersect at a halt / As the heartbeat melts in their firm, crashing grasp / And the nothingness lies in a room full of flies / Disintegrating to a hollow desire / Oh how I wish that my infinite bliss / Was disguised as this empty vessel / How I wish, just this one time / That my toes point at my destination