angelic dust
frontline of a lead presence
dissolving
in a final breath
creeps in hours,
hangs in our heads
surrounds us in death
unconsciousness by order,
violent rules impregnate
pushes us back
to recognize disorder and chaos
utopy in revelry
breaks through ancient scenery,
leads to subvert
this crazy fluid reality
Do we speak of words, or do words speak for us?
What do words say or how they say it?
shall we use insightful words
to praise a wonderland world
or shall we gather our friends
to instead
question authory/ and think for ourselves
we can descontruct
media constructed fallacies
under insidious words of war
phrase our ethics
give ourselves to others, dancing
to the intimacy of our own words
Burroughs once said,
"language is a virus,
that someone or something out of this world spread through us"
Words get interesting
when we twist
and revolve it
into new meanings
I strive to believe
that words can be real and stand for things
But honestly i believe more and more
that they re just noise that we made up,
it's the rhythm, the rhyme, the metric, the intention
that gives them life.
Kerouac for instance,
wanted to transmit the rhythm of the bebop jazz sax and would write in one breath like the sax player.
making only pauses at the proper rhythm. for that reason reading where important for the beat poets.
was all about the rhythm of words, which would a whole different meaning to it's essence