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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Political · #2087829
A Look Outwards, Filled with drugs and spirituality

Tarmac Horrorshow

Lewis Moorhouse

Draft One.

Am I a writer? No. But an observer of all things. The poet describing the pestilent sadness he has felt in his new, present and past lives. Centuries of collectivized disillusionment from the will embedded in human nature to chase oblivion. Spliced DNA. The oblivion only felt inside through obsessive and repetitive beat pain...days upon days upon hours into the microcosms of relative symbolistic time invested into high T dreams leaving their open affair with a mark of insomniac sockets...the only dreams I have are to my sporadic insensitivity to travel and adventure, in my delusional manic highs I can prophesise the depression felt turning to theories of opiate curing and conditioning. This is my experience with that conditioning, to vicariously see life through a haze so dreamlike, in context that my sweat soaked forehead needs craves...discussing internally a plan to garner the next adrenaline fix.. A fixture to heal the woes of life needs to be delivered daily to my door for I am too parasitic to deliver the wanton conclusion for wanton mysticism in life without my own views of hate being numbed by the neglect of an atmosphere burning by the spark in my life. The dock looks nice tonight, French crewmen signify my being with disruption to their work on a cross channel hauling ship...god I wish for the chance to just run... poetry unlike mundanity isn't created naturally, it lies on the seabed waiting to be resurrected... The peyote poets are the resurrectors of this far too gone world.

"Take it man, you're so selfless to us all, you deserve it"

But by god they'd flip the needle if they saw my internal conflict to the true reason of my ignorance to self. There is no reason to this memoir, only to record my journey since oblivion swallowed me and spit me out into this colder, loveless world... woe to the boy who.. As the beats carry on... searches through the impossibility that, lying in the catacombs of this world, lies unconditional love. For love to truly exist the prison must be broken, the cell of our senses to which confined we are solitary, to kill we are our own executioners. I walk round this dock having been exiled from an unwakened community of consumers, lighting the ink with falling ash, coat develops ragtag looks as the funerals of my ancestors weigh down upon me in a stupor of disbelief and disillusionment hurt you darling... The intellectuals comb a riffraff of spectatorship into a new millennium... a new age which, as I sit by this drink of humanity, never seems to be coming. I am distracted and destroyed in self by the constant ruling thoughts of forgotten love... run away when the prairie runs dry little one...there is nothing left for you here except hatred of togetherness. Hatred in the impossibility of never regaining passion lost and burnt in the wasteland of time, time which connects but cannot be real. It goes to show that the effects of oblivion on the soul are not breakage yet distortion. I sit broken on eroded stone as destruction helps me...entails me to a depression and mania that are not mine to own...but mine to rent and suffer with until the euphoric end day where my Turin shroud waits...where my reward for torture is an embodiment of war, loveless euphoria. What is your point on the hate greed regarded upon me? The gains are lost in pointless sports of our outdated fathers and his father before him, woe begotten the spirit of our disappointed mothers is lost upon our stupid selfishness that we could ever connect internally. Sit back as the spool runs out yet the end of the film keeps flapping...open a can of beer and neck while assumptions of breaking elitism are tuned on our factor to break into the grounds of crime and murder so horrific and long In their tales I can't possibly begin to repeat them. Succumb to efforts of my love and lie your weary nakedness on the grass while I fly this flag of which is plain, void of name or property to symbolism. I don't want to own land yet need to be symbiotic with its creeping roots. Experiencing light that is not just heat or waves but which is the fabric of my existence, for which they are the canvas to paint my wanton desires...and oh father if you could hear me now in your hazy mind...to see my spirit naked on land that can never be mine...to feel my creation wrapping you in its warmth...to see me running unatoned with imperfect love lay in shapes before me and next to me

I here lie in addled amazement

Finding the true painters meaning

For I will be free

In lude anti-conventional pleasure

Stripped of my tiresome individualism

Finally to be in the company

Of oblivion.

Arc of the basic desire for

Masculinity and safety

In the comforting arms of testosterone insanity.

Hallucinogenic Hailstorm

Trapping us back into the corner

Where we try to escape

Is it better to gain higher consciousness?

To look around at your surrounding population

The workings of the personal individual mind

Unravelled while the collective consciousness, free flowing in the air, mind and body struggles against the ropes of oppression

To see the broken body of escapism

Grey skin sagging down from the bones of despair onto phantom limbs

No longer there

Junk sickness rivets through even the most conservative of evils

As refined poison becomes the gateway drug to hellish downfalls of normal humanity

When the whole world seems pointless

Is higher consciousness meant as blessing, curse or cruel trickery?

Middle ways split into tangents and crossroads where I will meet myself again

A paradoxical personality

Deciding if the time was now or back then

Would it have been the right decision?

Blank eyes staring back at me, through me

In wormhole expressions that shine through the sun

The attention is shone with a doctor's flashlight in lobotomised chills

All bounds are untied in response less shrugging of shoulders as I collapse in my future self

At an incorrect passage and moment of time which will devour itself

In hatred of imperfections, linear replications are not wanted here

Dance to the sound of the hallucinogen hailstorm, bask in untold beauty of behemoth insanity I raise my time, grey eyes turning to black as my soul transports into bodies untold by prophecies in high afternoons

Youthful tales of unbound lust suddenly decimate in streamers that gravitate towards the ground in front icy sparkles set into flames that lick at my feet as single tear becomes concept becomes the physical becomes the exhaustion and emancipation to problems never solved

Witness to self-mental destruction

Blow out the candle

Sing me to sleep.

As the eyes fall and the bags droop in yellow saggish skin the city lights fade away in a pleasure of hell and loosely connected kin who are we? Where do we go? The deep questions will soon fade to drowsiness and more dope the injection is crucial...need to take...need to have...wanton addiction...the withdrawal starts and as the hell reaches fine point high black fire begins sprouting omnipresent eyes that judge...wallow watch with routine and you're stuck in the pit of feverish dreams...39 degrees illness shouldn't be up but you have to work the burner won't buy itself travel back to your hovel little man! Shoot up as you take another drag and your hands shake missing the vein abscess there need to train another drag cigarette is out so is your time now please don't pout.

Pittance or penance for the oh woeful boy

Whose sexual frustration manifests itself in faux coy personalities.

Valium addiction

Euphoric tangents

Turning on a farthing

For the manic agents of hormonal imbalance.

A corner of the world is holding the only light

Left in this palace

The rope frays and snaps

While I rot in this palace

The junk rapes my sense

While I burn In this palace

My sight defies me

Running blind in this palace

I can smell only corpses

Medicating in this palace

My touch is paralysed

Tied up in this palace

The alcohol calls to me

Poisoning this palace

The boy knocks on the door for tea

Payed in this palace

The guitar string cuts into three

Decapitation in this palace

The palace and one is me

Charge the gates of the palace

So I can flee

© Copyright 2016 Lewis Moorhouse (lewismoorhouse at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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