Just a Number, Just a Construct, Owl Eyes Seeded, Deep Inside in the Sabatic, Vandalized Thought(Not edited)
Is there a working picture, a shapeless road that leads to a vast conscious, and direly awakened Robot...
Can a number be elastically somber?
can he be the dominant
velocity build-in spherical disorder
Where is the explicate order
that warms and implicates
the fired hearts, a bit colder
Where is the anonymous topographical folder
asking for Dana Scully and Agent Mulder
In the arms of the restless beholder
nothing rests on the world’s shoulder
but
still it breaths
still, it dreams
wandering in the brown satin forest
as drown energy under, enlarged with all public sins
And so it begins…
Black and white twins fall
metamorphic presence erased with bells call
old stories evaporated in the old cooking stove
cold wind is sent in the direction of the white dove
war is a letter pursued by the angry excited glove
cozy asylum is the faltering remembrance dancing on a hangman’s rope
the breeze of life can be asserted without assumptions of brighter hope
Life is terrified of the angry-looking, blood-thirsty gnome
UFO stories are words distorted, hidden in contaminated, always sarcastic probe
what is the seldom infused robbing matter and where lies the puls of the spinning globe
Mont Meru, misty Peru, or in the thievish hands of the filthy Pope
at the center
on the left
on the right
Can honest ideas survive the gloominess of past lies?
has ticking mind already been drowned in the sophisticated lake of falsified advice
Can a man be given his true aim?
his truest sight
Can all proposed ends simultaneously charge, without an idiot-savant
who is desperately begging for a fight?
Is there a contracted bird that can see all colors, hidden deep
deep in the roaring night…
Is the unholy vengeance our last call
our grieving might
Will Viking sword point his sharp edge to the one and only North?
If you understand, do not be afraid and come forth
Are you the ship, now built that knows its cosmic port?
If you understand
come with a smile…
come forth.
The heart is the warm kingdom even in the biting cold
and there you will meet the living always working sextant
who tells the right time and bends the flowing space but can distinguish the valiant lord from the horny and soulless peasant
he will reveal the truest lights a real meaning that hides itself behind word, treasure
This treasure can not appear without a fight, without timeless struggle and honest principal measure
The word can be and become both,
but the frozen, green passage is for certain, called North
If you understand
come with a smile…
say, friend
and
come forth.
“In the serpent fire and daunting cold, he was again and again born
In the middle of golden fire and painful cold, he was without absolution, three times torn
Was he ever here, was he ever born?
Or just senselessly torn, so he can be again, and again be born
Every man must ask himself:
What is a working compass without his trusted North?
brimming force of undisputed life or just a dialectic essence, dispersed and cruel form
Even in death, there has to be some kind of guiding, polarizing norm.
Not all can be lost in the pointless savagery and under the barometric pressure of dark heretical Storm
Every man must ask himself:
What is a working compass without his trusted North?”
HP