conrad_metcalf (conrad_metcalf) wrote in surreal_games,
conrad_metcalf
conrad_metcalf
surreal_games

automatic writing

i found i couldn't write today i was cold and dead inside icebergs shift and heavens thrill me but nothing lives to die inside my head sing songs of birds making in shallow graves trying to impress upon themselves the proper etiquette towards dating english lads upon houses and graves dance the sharks living to consume us all as i hide inside lines of thought driving towards oblivion my life take the direction of a pre-schooler's art project mishapped upon by all awkward
what is death but no longer being buried
tomorrow is never coming live and die alone today
death is a subject we pretend to revere as we write immortal lines of drivel
knock knock who's there the man with the sickle who comes to eat the pickle out of the children's dreams and take the family back into the land of wealth and shame with no one to blame but our lack of ingenuity and wit

we write as if we revere only we fear nothing but ourselves in the eyes of the beholder our neighbor lying in wait
into sin he did begin to dance upon the flesh of a madman willing to impress his soul onto her eyes
will we ever be clean of sin?
where do we go when we die but no one knows and or wishes to try because
with each passing step across the imaginary barriers the mind takes more strain than can accommodate and eventually withers away into madness despair and disease so lets come and play in the sand castle for all eternity before the ocean washes us all away and we are again absorbed into the flow of life and the universe all around us and zeus casts bolts to fight for our souls against prometheus and we laugh at the gods for their problems are trivial for they pay nothing of the gas prices we all deal with except i walk and don't drive too fast is the key and they say the key is embedded inside our skulls waiting for the right hole to slip into
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