Beneath the bon fire, he released his motifs of belief. He then succeeded that in his reasoning, the ashes of the truth had burnt out. Meaningless guilt perhaps. He saw it coming.
He was a cacophony of endless desire in his head. He always searched for the unknown. A lone ranger of sorts. He never devoured in sentiment. He divorced himself from ritual. He was, so to say, none like the other ever before. He would carry a copy of Dada’s legacy and works where ever he travelled. For him, Dada meant protest, a revolution against perceived reality. He saw reason and logic to be detrimental to any human and sub-human quest. In the times that he had lived in, his reality was even more obscure as he revelled into hash mush. His dirty little poison, that intense love affair with the sub conscious. He was an activist for his inner most causes and for the people that shined him. He read people as blue and as honest as the sky. He had a feel for energies specific types of behavioural attitudes. He had always been surrounded by an eclectic mass if he was not retreating in his cerebral mass.
But why is it that he holds back. The potential of decay is rife. Arbitrary to the common cause of mental disillusionment, he would and could come out from his shackled mind. But he stares into the bon fire now. Ashes and flickers of amber now. Limbo into a beautiful and frightening frenzy. He burnt the remains of her memory. He saw it coming.
He was a cacophony of endless desire in his head. He always searched for the unknown. A lone ranger of sorts. He never devoured in sentiment. He divorced himself from ritual. He was, so to say, none like the other ever before. He would carry a copy of Dada’s legacy and works where ever he travelled. For him, Dada meant protest, a revolution against perceived reality. He saw reason and logic to be detrimental to any human and sub-human quest. In the times that he had lived in, his reality was even more obscure as he revelled into hash mush. His dirty little poison, that intense love affair with the sub conscious. He was an activist for his inner most causes and for the people that shined him. He read people as blue and as honest as the sky. He had a feel for energies specific types of behavioural attitudes. He had always been surrounded by an eclectic mass if he was not retreating in his cerebral mass.
But why is it that he holds back. The potential of decay is rife. Arbitrary to the common cause of mental disillusionment, he would and could come out from his shackled mind. But he stares into the bon fire now. Ashes and flickers of amber now. Limbo into a beautiful and frightening frenzy. He burnt the remains of her memory. He saw it coming.
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