A Lack of Name?

Come directions, in the far sided levees. Replete but yet so honeyed. Argumentative bees fighting for benign supremacy, of the religious flowers, flowering. They arise in swollen shapes of raging man-made rivers. Thousands of flapping wings, flowing in their respective alleys in search of the Grammatik stand-off.

Who was the regions last long distance rider? Did he finally marry the goldsmith’s daughter? Why not? Aah! That balloon of a man finally did meet a dismal lady of his dreams. My pessimism is well founded; the collector’s daughter is privy to that sly reasoning.

The bees dressed up in gold? Never could wear the sunlight, could they? Suits the queen, I presume. A bit over weight though, birth of a colony is the causal culprit I recon. Do I speak for the other too? Not to my Gnostic knowledge. Fat filled flowers? Not the colony? That is for the dietitian to decide. I’m forced to plead ignorance to that science.

Laughter!

There were champagnes’ from all chateaus of the region and rice beer too. But the invitees of dignity sipped their personal liquors of choice. The marriage was a rape of the traditional beliefs and mores. Never had the quarter of a generation waited for the eventual marriage of such an uninspiring family to the goddess of visions and rebellion. Not to me in the direct sense of personality of even harm, but simply the attitudes of the beasts in the neighboring ocean-villas flopping about in their ideas that grind my bones to silly irritation. Man and women of desertion.

Shocked!

Then a cloud of shocking evens ensued: autumn arrived in its abundant splendors to press the fully cloaked bees to the wall. A marriage was announced. Some lonely two legged creatures decided to please the world. Food was ordered and a fire was started. The previous union had left the galleries of the chefs depleted, and hunt began for the remaining autumn flowers. With singular silvery motions, one to another, the flowers bleed and fell to the hands of the ceremony of love. Elixirs flowing into the tea pots for flavoring of the dried cousins. The beauty was killing the guests off penury.

Sniffs!


Too young, the maids of honor were to even understand the words being spoken. But they did understand the tones though, the tough parts from the romantic, the pristine from the jaded. It rained red and white the proceeding jabs. Complete in its visual antics. Designers of a lost kind, the traditional! All the way, from the next complete room. The vows ensued. The lovers renewed their recent commitments. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Cheers!

The noise was deafening. That clanging shrill! Spoons on glasses of wine. And the dignity of champagnes filled, the hive with jealousy! The thin green candle was lit! Happiness at such moments is the foreplay to dawn’s glowering secrets. The bees missed the invitation to the gathering. No alembic lines to interpret. No directions in tow of the decadence. No reason to watch from trees up in the realm of smoke. So silent. The queen was in a deep thought. The slivers of nature were rubbing shoulders with the cloaked insects of the sweet day. Images and images.

Descends!

A furore in the trees above was noticed by the young, first time caterer, towards the cynosure of all activity, a colored mass descended. A million stings were felt and cried out for, slapping of the wrists in a ditch attempt of safety. Silting slowly in the torrid zone of shouts and wails, a marriage was broken. The first dance.

Cream!

All the willowed pieces, all the hefty agents. Dying, dying, all along the old vine, borrowed. Random acts of flight, an attack on the wanton acts of the parties. The surrogacy was complete. The victors saw the picric grass. “Where did the runner run?”
Very far? Thought to that direction! “Did the lady find beauty?”

Compromise…

“Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire.”
- Josh Ritter.

...

They showed me ice lights
Rising from foreign corners,

They showed me light green
Water in their eyes,

They showed me circular ponds
Displaying their hyacinths,

They showed me the gilded mirror
Saying we are made of stardust.

They showed me soft sands.

They showed me electric trees.

They showed me,

Yellow,

Light laughter,

Asterisks and Exclamations,

They showed me the room
I just walked into.

Shaking my head, gently.

Ellipsis.

Balance of sorrow.

"Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow."
- Deirdre of the Sorrows.

Initially the phrase was ‘ The’ balance of sorrow’. But after a slight chat with a relative friend it struck me that the use of ‘The’ in this situation would be an acceptance of the generic viability of sorrow. Balance shadowed the sorrow. Thus ‘A’ balance of sorrow. The balance was delivered in my head through red-eyed projections.

Tears cut, and stolen from gypsies who were lamenting the loss of dynamic relationships. Relations shared by them.
Shared by them, with their sorrows. Confused purely by the virginity of these vestal, emotive aggravations to their ideas of grief.
The initial moments of sorrow. How plain! How sweet!
Litters of flowers in reds and blacks.
Dirty! Rotting, not just yet. Orange!

The moods:
Engulfed!
Engulfing!
The remnants of the strewn feeling, drawing from the simple multitudes of the aforesaid harsh moments.

2002.

The torture of the limited conscience for the legality of the patriotic serum, dry and driven. The raped song! Drying within the tube light nations images of the west running, and accused of secretly applying fiery balms to divisive wounds. The floods dried it of the acceptance of unattainable ignorance.

Tilting, are the seesaws of the hide and seek game.
Status quo. Irrelevance.
A monopoly of truths, an army of orange flowers, walking below bridges and building criss-crossed shelters. Attempting the emergence of sorrows.

Religion sat on a park bench, religion absorbed, the gifted red. Not asking, nor refusing.
Religion jumped from rooftops, impaled, in perfect unison.

A weighing scale, yielded by the queen of circumstance, crouching behind marked oak chambers. Weighing the rivers of sad memoirs written in bright inks, in the hope of a notice. The balance.

Tears and fears with angel leers.

In their eyes it can be, in their eyes it shifted, sparsely. Balance of such sorrow reflected off the silver glass panes and numb movements. Silting in issued tents. Not asking for comfort or pillows. Nor strong words of love and martyrs. No curtains.
Only macro scopes. Yes! Macro scopes!

The second discussion –

‘A’ balance, rejects the collective sphere of sorrow. ‘The” balance, forgoes the personal experience. Thus the balance I try to elucidate if dwelling in the chasm of these two bi-polar desserts of sorrows. Both eyes see different angles of the light. Collective sight is the aspiration of this piece.