instant bullshit

chadwick

dearest whomever gives a shit,

nothing/everything... the end is not near and does not exist. you may believe that it is in existence, it is not nor close. there is nothing of an edge, nowhere is a deadline. this shitload goes on passed termination, terminal does not claim within all things. stellar is as beneath feet as is sunbelts held by anthills or giants in cloud. in ultimate awareness the definition outlasts, therefore, blood does not dry itself to a crusty red-brown shade, thick or thin coagulation ...rather, never ending fits puzzles here and there, nor here or there... it has and always will consume all selves as one

tied together no matter how terribly one may dislike something, fear and hate, love and kissing, erect or extremely wet, grass green or bees sting, moon or sun, blast or silent wars... woven within time

time is everything but does not live yet does believe in the all
this is why all is spread thin or thick

shit changes

rollings

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Being in love is a cloud

It takes the shape of
what would be spaces that
doubt, loneliness, emptiness, longing, and stupidity used to fill
and replaces half of it with
warmth, tenderness, hugs, kindness, desires, bliss--
overcoming and overwhelming--

and the other half it fills with--
magic

it's magic how instant the bullshit appears

and stays

and so do we
floating by in steam-rolled ships of it
and for why?
because...
I forget
remind me
what's the alternative?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

chadwick

poem... mice, men and owls

a long time ago dust and rain
a story of storm brought to life
with long beards
mice and owls

color was born
a string of many held puppets
these are all things out in weathered weather
and in nonstopping resting holes

the old men step like seasons
four per year
it seems to last forever
still growing stillness
and still going within stillness of today
this day
even at night tonight's silence
like owls diving downward upon the fields of war
where the slow quit running

where old gray men out in red
and in depleted canvas tents
rage alongside rodents
alongside the spilling of insides

this is swords' old iron call
screaming into darkness
and into blinding light
where angels and their opposites dwell

this is all battle's death pile
on wings
and in gaps
greater than quicksand floors unhinged

rollings

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men: the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed—and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone. He attains the unknown, and, if demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen
--Arthur Rimbaud

chadwick

Rollings wrote:

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men: the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed—and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone. He attains the unknown, and, if demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen
--Arthur Rimbaud

makes sense to me
anyone here feel this way?

a poet to what makes him go and to what makes him last, the only way. it is this fortitude that grinds through darkness, grinds throughout each and every single day, long or short, wrapped around the clock. this is mostly how breathing takes place, word by word, story by story the life in motion or on pause as if film.

these are visionary currents in and through cryptic channels dialed in as preceivable from orchestrated Muse work, worship, love and dislike. it is in this arrangement where his blood spills as ink never leading to his freedoms away from his own enclosure that is his flesh and bone.