conjuring

it's not the day of the sloughed rhythm - slipping out of a cycle, in the moonlit pool's ripple, it was a hobo train to tropane freedom, lethal archetypes - the best kind of connections are tenuous - fentanyl is real but more symbolic to me than any actuality - let's not get into meditation on time though - and belief is too subsumed in semantics - moongate crasher, union fatefitter, crack-spasm teques

guilt is good so they say, keeps things in check, but that cycle devours itself, and no i won't draw it as a spiral - you can't always see a wound for what it is, or maybe it's a premonition - i'd love to be able to be the crazy drunk, or maybe my drug is self-righteousness, the limited i'm allotted in my own guilt and drug-corrupted life

it's the day of sniping distant and dying nalis on crosses - at least that's what i remember sucrets juice could conjure, and it WAS a conjuring, genuinely crazy shit - sounds pretty similar to a turn of the century record groove, a laughtrack from 02, but there are subtle variations, a clarinet solo - a paradigm patchwork quilt woven from a change of education, a school of life - oh those hard knockers, what do they know? what can they tell? maybe they never assembled lao's yang from the shards, or maybe what they needed was the yin - it's either ether or the other, and ethereally redundant and deluded to simplify it in those terms, unless you can drink your beverage of choice and get away with it