Canto do CAN

Sadistic and optimistic, moves that swing, dangled in unison, for book or crook the things that seem wild and futile and serene. Diverge. The path less traveled, the consonance of aspirant, I seek not, for if I seek I shall end sick as such, disregard innocence and please the pleader, painting the walls, the world and the sands. Sailing. Ask, the timelessness that follows, the rumor that pushes the mill, the sound of beating hooves, the square, the triangle, the shapeless forms that try for order, though order is fleeting, a dream that lacks sleep. Consequence. For a fool, a life well lived, is a life set in silence, for a fool never aspires for nothing and sees his achievements written in glee. Inspiration. Of what we know none, for words, the wordless and pens to be dropped, select a pencil, a disarray of insecurity, a crop of scattered images, silence and revolution. Seamless. Seems less, for aspiration, to describe whatnot, a convolution of colossus, a volte-face, singular in prosp...

Drag, along the blade. Sickening dagger of repetition. Like flowers fallen in concrete streets, that carry echoes of laughter past. Shallow is the grave, the keeper digs, zealous to all creation. Scream not in vain but twist the handle. Shackle down yet another soul. Through binds that crave and long. Finished with sick smile, careful approach. Yet the fool yells, screams and taunts. Pulls the mob into a frenzy. Rebel rousing, was never so much fun. Without pause, cause or debate. Jimmy and strafe down the window. Embrace the depth of the embodied. Swing under the moonlight. Stare into the deep. So long as there is a way, should there even be a will? How crass. How feeble. How stupid and mundane. Drown, pulled down by the anchor of despair. Choke, slaved to the laws of living. Puke funneled leis. Constrict on the shadow of opulence. It is rather mundane. Rather sad and sadistic.

Redact the composition. Let the conductor guide with madness for the composer became a poser, jesting out of vanity. Sit. Watch the sunrise, sunset and nightfall, full moon in bloom, while the time passes, kiss away the time. Absconded in uncertainty, match the striding continuity of notes, still the conductor took the wheel, direction is uncommon, mandated to the loony bin. Listen. We push the parlor, get candid and lasting drawings. We fill them. Theme by theme. Inch by inch. Layers of skin. Think. Connect with the disconnected, avoid mundane advice, whilst the sober calls and clamors for madness, let him pass gently into a den of sin. The dance, the damned, the conscripted, the converted, the fallen and saved. A flavor for all, a favor to none. Question. If there is a time to do, it is done and dusted, sealed and planted, without evidence or command. Compassion is a tear that slowly drifts, in slumber, while we crash, flop and fall. … The resolve, the procession, the act that you sh...

Foreclosure. What was spoken, laid in silence, craving existence, followed in lights of old, carried by the young, unwilling and blind. Strip the venue of excitement, clauses follow suit, no issue is left unhandled, for obscure musings, uncertain details, that reveal no information at all. It carries the text of pictures, social media revenue and relevance, which once was fought for, is bought with nameless acts of disconposure, personal disdain, sleepless nights. The undead body that drags the zombie along, morbid in status. And does anyone really care? Stitch the skin, to make a smily face, we tried it before, over and over and over, in continuity of insanity. The struggle follows the flow of ineptitude, the delusion of knowing, knows not no limit nor boundary. A chain and a rattle, them bones that shove you one, are you still breathing? Do you still breed? Expectations are lowered, the gene pool is clearly tainted, the generation that follows has a vague idea of the one that preced...

Only cretins, devoid of feelings, scour land and sea. Search for a nexus of easy fame, of easy fame, disguised with vain attempts at irony. Creation is feeble, bathed in failed veils of madness, for sanity long left the discourse. Discord settles illusion and the tell tale of madness follows the plight for coercion. It all decays. Left with a spiral of ruin, the laughter spins madness and the blind oblige. Brick by brick the stone road is paved in gravel. Meaningless. For certain travel around the course of life, drop the subject of serene disdain. It all spirals and encases the melodrama, getting unraveled. In a sense of lonesomeness, the flight takes place, guided by sonar and visual impairment is in place. No wonder the order wanders for wanderers that copy the flow of what shakes the earth, in the eyes of unsettled dispute. It all, in maddening muddled sway, plunge and escape. Is the time, the time to dock for hours, the time to escape, to clear the rule of thumb, we know of not wh...