The Obscure

Rocking consciousness, and waves upon waves of briny life come crashing down on me. Soaked to the bone, I say, and I can only speak the words of my forgotten mind. What will they do to me? Does anyone know? These vile persons, groping at my form, learning my shape with their fingers. What am I supposed to say? Shackle myself in? Preposterous! Follow a less enlightened path? I could never!
But where to go from here? Nobody knows, nobody cares.
Schooling is an odd thing, I can see myself years from now, sitting complacently on the knee of the Sudan, learning all I can. Could I drink from that forbidden cup? Could my mind truly be filled with the glands of other men?

Then again, there is an easier way. I could wander from street to street, visiting towns and cities, spending days picking through the garbage pails of our great country's most eminent citizens. I could see the world through my own starved and poverty stricken eyes, I could eat the bread of life with a tan mongrel from the Bronx. What of these things? Must I really chain myself to the forefront of intellectual resuscitation? Why do these things come out of my hands tonight? What grim inspiration do I rely on for these incoherent strings of dementia?
Pigshit! That is all I have. Who will come for me when my body gives up the ghost? Who will answer the call and take my blood away? I cannot understand the vile putrid filthy laws that take my hands from my pockets and eat my eyes from their bloody sockets. I am stuck inside the frozen trucks of my sister's brain. Giggling now? But what is the difference between you and I, really?
All these people try to act like they have a thought rolling around in their heads, when in sooth all they have is pretend aspirations and false principles. Who is going to tell them that their beloved world is nothing but a fake? Who is going to answer me when I ask these enormous questions? I dreamt a dream, many years ago, and tonight it came true before my very eyes. How come this cannot be a daily occurrence? What sin did I commit while still in the womb, that doomed my life to retain such a disappointing colour?

How come every night I must snap into this temporary psychosis? Even without the aid of painkillers to still the throbbing taste of death, I still find the foreground of my mind to be a deadly place in the night-time. It is a good thing I have the love-song of Coltrane to ease my pain. But alas, all that does is add confusion to my atmosphere. The world is warming up, my friends, there is an atmosphere of disillusion.
Who is it that turned this house into such an uncomfortable place? Who is it that said for me to empty my skull I must be sad, for me to be stretched mentally thin, I must be insane? Depression? What the hell!
She runs the motor at this time, and the brilliant one will find her out. Who is going to save her? She cannot save herself!

The feathers are calling me to aid them in their gossamer conflict. Do not take offense.
The world is warming up, my friends. The atmosphere is changing, the wildlife is growing calm.