I’ve never written poetry. Not really.
The words I write are not mere words.
There is prophecy in what I’m going after and if I could explain that better I would, but there’s no time left.
The first poem I ever wrote was about the moon. I’ve said that already in several poems.
Now I must go passed the moon and do my best to enter other spaces so when I reenter Earth’s atmosphere I’m not only a better man, but a better communicator.
Planetary travel versus the internal trappings of one’s universal mind and body electric. Pushing beyond the outer limits and accepting the twilight of one’s soul as key if we’re ever going to file down the totality of our sins.
I’ve never written poetry. No not really.
When I press down the keys or hold a pen or pencil in my hand I am holding onto the past, doing my best to move through the present and embarking upon a future written in super flues and pandemics.
Florence Nightingale was Jesus Christ and if you don’t understand that then there is very little that you will ever truly comprehend. There is no more messing about you’re either in or you’re out and if you are not a believer then you’re already dead.
Cries of silence permeating every molecule of our chemical makeup.
Your soulmate a petri dish. Now the question is are we willing and able to look through the microscope to see the truth laid out before us like a reading of tarot cards? The tarot readers are scientists and your best bet is to stop believing so doggedly in any God.
I stood in the town square and rubbed excrement all over my body. I didn’t do it to prove a point. In fact I’ve never felt the need to prove anything to anyone and that includes this very second, when we’re on the precipice of monumental calamities and the crushing deathblow of humankind being forced to its knees.