Horizon.

The heat is oppressive enough without the white hot depression which always kicks this time of year. Too hot to even open a window and look out over the sky, blue as the eyes of yesterday's movie stars. So I'm trapped. Stuck in my own fucking analogy and trying to remember the philosophy that always gets me through. Something about - we're all just spinning on an empty rock in a cold lonely universe so smile, fucko, because everyone else is just as dead as you, as lost as you, they just hide it better under all the toys, or they have something more to focus on, like survival amongst the ruins of a piece of fucking land. My land, your land. That war makes me sick. I've got to stop watching the news. I need to focus on the light. To move towards the light which dances every night in my dreams, a tantalising, teasing temptation, so close, but so far away.

How long can you hold a dream? From deep in the night through the day and beyond. For years, for a lifetime, can you hold gentle and protected a single wisp of dream, a single cotton thread of what might be? I can. I can feel the white butterfly skipping in my heart. I can resign myself to the fact, that I am here for different reasons. That there are lessons to be learned that do not involve flights of fiscal fantasia, but rather the continual search within the soul for the door to the next stage. Whereby we might wake every day with a smile, no matter what this fucked up capitalist society decides to throw at us. No matter which way the arrows point, or what the anchor man tells us, the indicators, the seperators, the columns and charts and graphs, the concrete teeth of the sleeping Devil which rise in every city across the world. Death from below, graveyards of our own making, constructed of silver to forever distract us from the sad, sad truth. That we have murdered our earth and our souls to pursue pieces of paper. That we have lost all freedom of movement to pieces of paper. A sad, sorrowful, grubby, greedy, destructive sty full of pigs at the trough. The world is spinning to its doom, and we all deserve to go to Hell with it.

So smile then fucko, just like you said. What's depression, when the whole town is dead. That's almost worth a grin, knowing that one day beneath your feet will be a memory, knowing that in a billion, billion years, this will be dust and you will be inside an honest to God, real life fucking star. Just have to be patient. Play the game until you die. Eat some cheese, drive with the window down, touch that skin, milk that cock, write it all down, which house you want, which drink you'll have. Never, ever, forget to stop and scratch a pooch, those little guys don't understand, and they need some love. Make lists, make love, make one person understand you, and maybe they'll do the same to someone else, and maybe it will flow on, maybe it's a dream, but maybe it will flow on. A river of understanding to drown the world of pain.

The heat is oppressive. I sit in a darkened room. The sky is as blue and unforgiving as the eyes of an angry father. But there is today. And maybe we are all spinning toward our deserved doom, but we are not there yet. So I pick up a pen, and I start to draw. I take up my paint brush and paint. I write a song. I read recipes. I open the door and spy an angel and breathe upon her. I talk to the chickens in the language of the birds and have no idea what I am saying. I take a cold bath and laugh at my own body. I tell myself, if doom is coming, then baby, let's have a little fun. I light the light behind my eyes. I set free the butterfly within my heart. I keep the Hope fires burning.

And I make them burn bright, baby
that you might see them
from over your horizon.

Burn after reading.

I used to live
in a city of blood
of wine and fuck
and to Hell
with you
all.

I remember
the way it kept
me warm
the fire that
lust and anger
happily igniting
myself in an orgy
of rebellion.

I used to live
in the bottom
of a bottle
amongst the sentimental
flotsam which collected
together in a protective
shell.

I used to need
to write about it
I used to want to smash
the page the words your face
my heart this world this lack of
revolution this skull drugdery and
drugged old me and slugs we'll be for
eternity if I don't start to curse our comfort
our luxurious malaise our destructive ambition
our ugly dreams of how rich or how beautiful or
even how loved we'll be - I hated that and myself
for wanting it even more than I wrote that the world
around me did - God, I wanted it. And I was never afraid
to ask you in silence in my heart in the dark of the night sads
when the creaks and cracks appeared at the window a pale face
and white eyes and tomorrow's terror and a green backed monster
a broken heart no hope for a house no way forward never going to make it
I can't see the light I fumble for it but instead I grasp a black and velvet nothing
which illuminates by the glow that still lives behind your eyes, my eyes, the eyes of
the monster which cannot finish what it begins.

What I did was
I stood and murdered that
fire at the crashing end of last year
lost the anger amongst the sad and pitiful
slashed the wrists of a common enemy
drowned the fucker in remorse and laid
alone on the grass in mortal repose to wait
and see the shape of today rather than moulding
the clay of tomorrow into yet another worthless urn
of daydreams and hope but all it did that day upon the grass
all it did was rain.

And the brain kept on
never stopping the relentless
analysis and pushing and pushing
its savage critique and never allowing
for error or bliss or chi or tao or Now unless
the fire you see the fire the way to silence the
damnation which The Self flagellates upon my back
the fire the fuck the fall on my feet luck of the Irish the
twinkle the grin the hiding within the never letting you see
the wrong move in a wrong situation which always somehow
becomes alighted excited all fucking righted
in
The End.