BELOW THE HAND OF LOVE

And so does sleep relieve the interminable thread of joy; bring silence to the ghoulish daytime parade of the sad and the lonely, the lost and ever greedy souls.
The hallucinogenic grip of time cannot be escaped from or controlled only witnessed only experienced. Its’ only concern is to eat away at the lines on your face the tears in your eyes and the booming echoes that resound in the vast museum of the heart.

In the claustrophobic and terrifyingly distant lands men are beaten bloodless with the iron rims of a factory chair. They hang in the whistling noonday breeze cloaked in a newfound secrecy.
We turn this nightmare into a televisual feast, a brooding chasm of our lost innocence. Then we idly turn the world on its head and invent the unilateral quiz show.

The passing clouds briefly alleviate our restless guilt and sunlight becomes an impenetrable
anagram of the soul.
Alone we press on relying on hope, on false hope and the twisted and deceitful lies that are fed to us as children.
We gamble daily with the inner disease of autocracy. The plural joys of love unreal and untouchable, always out of reach, we convince ourselves of these false and misleading half-truths and invent new ways to destroy the remnants of mystery and innocence.

There are no new or insightful ways to fortify the lost lines that aimlessly lead us to the voice of our one true angel, the devilish mystic or the hick town trickster.
No unifying force no healing hand or soothing touch can protect us in this idle moment.

Only shallow hands and blood thin victories await us. A terrifying realistic dirt-stabbing echo of what once was or could have been.
A relentless parade of memories, a never-ending serenade to the ghost of our eternal loss.
Who will remain then to ask the questions, who will stand and tell the final story invent the final outcome.
We all await our own justifiable photographic parade. Our lives transcribed in monochrome as we hold each lost and precious moment, clasped tightly to our chests re living our own lost cause.

Never understanding the restrictive uniformity and conformist limitations of the simplest thought process. We continue to believe ourselves and our monotone and one-dimensional egos.
Believing that what we see what we feel and experience may actually be real . This is the beginning of our greatest and most glaring mistake. And one from which it becomes almost impossible to escape . Only imitation and hollow fakery can bring about a temporary rescue.

We must restrict our luxury of choice and become the lone crusader against the futility of ritual.
Forever living below the hand of love on a never-ending collision course with passive resistance.
This only serves to permeate the soul with the pointless utility of endless dialogue. Variation upon variation diatribe and doctrine invented thought projections and religious philosophy providing a searing heat of mass hysteria. Helping to control the brain synapses and exploding the engine of the helpless and individual voice.
A neo cryptic biological nightmare begins. A chemical imbalance on the imprint of self. A never-ending cycle, the ageless and timeless remnants of which continue to infect all aspects of the multiple dimension.

And while we wait each day grows darker each light grows dimmer each and every one of these isolated moments continue to expand beyond our control.
We seek solace in new and superfluous invention and in the clouded screens of indolent spiritual falsehood. We continue always ant-like in our pitiful and wretched domain. Never understanding the ticking of the hour in the endless night of clocks.