Such Stuff as Dreams...

Daytime.
Waiting.
Brutal.
Meat.
Celestial.
Feet approaching no end except tomorrow.

You’ve got it, man.
Distance yourself from the immediacy of now.
Tomorrow comes tomorrow.
It inevitably comes tomorrow until that time when it stops coming,
But I don’t know where I’ll be by then.

- note to self. Bones. April, 1777.

Your supple breast,
Teased in ecstasy.
And I thought it could last a lifetime.
But you took it away.
Dreams turn on themselves so unpleasantly.
And I am just a goddamn clown,
With my dick in my hand.

-Fr. B. Darling recounting his taken celibacy, 1914

Once when I was trapped in the hard place

With the soul squirreling for freedom,

There came a feeling over me

Much like when you connect eyes with a lover in the heat of passion.

My cell walls were barren and had been for some time,

But the light beamed in all around.

"It’s just the essences of the evening lifting through the air" I thought.

But in such radiance the specter did glow,

I thought, perhaps I had gone mad.

She laid her loving warmth around me,

All parts enthralled in the throes.

Such visitation is of the utmost privilege,

the evening does not give vision like this

To see your future and your past,

The primal turnings of the hourglass.

And batted away into a shamanic rung I was.

Warm silence filled my every pour.

What space feels like,

But then she was gone.

_bones_ heartbroken bones….

 

I sat in the shadow of the cold, hard moon

Dwelling on times that had come too soon.

But, when you bask in the shadow of the cold, hard moon,

Your imagination begins to loom.

To get the best you,

It tries to do.

Slow to ruin,

Slower to doom.

And yet, we always return to the shadow of the cold, hard moon,

Wishing for more time, to come in bloom.

Basking in the shadow of the cold, hard moon.

_Brigadier Bonesy Darling recounting the war of Spanish Incantation, 1871-2 

Pathetic pathology once put over me in a sad way,

But Roman chamomile could lull the pain away

On such a burdened type of day.

Juice for sleeping me thinks.

-passages from the Bonder Starling//////

What is it that you want?

Do you want me to fall in love with you?

I can assure that doesn’t happen,

At least, not with you.

I love myself just fine.

There’s pretty much no room left after that.

But certainly keep trying.

- a moment of pause taken with the Bonesy.

What purpose could I possible posses except to be honestly available? I simply have to quit talking so plainly…
-Bonesy Darling, Minstrel of the Universal Steppes
… eat healthy and die.

What purpose could I possible posses except to be honestly available? I simply have to quit talking so plainly…

-Bonesy Darling, Minstrel of the Universal Steppes

… eat healthy and die.

When malice can infect every possible orifice of the body,

Life may seem unsustainable.

Yet it proceeds with great passion in all direction.

We are at no mercy but our own.

Love

_bones_ the sands of time do tilt in our favor…

In this day and age, you can spent a quarter life doing nothing, tethered to your kin for finance. Perhaps we are a wasted generation. We can’t make a stake because there is simply nothing to claim, except imaginary money and margins. Craft is dead, which is why it is so sought out. Those with the expressed ability to create well and with skill are, essentially, thrown money. This is because skilled craft, the work of the hands, has become mystified. “How does one do it?”or “I wish I could do that.” they exclaim. Poor them. The generation has lost self-ambition and will. Our hands are withering away, idly. Perhaps we are the Devils generation.   

-a thought by the Bonesy

The winters prison had bared down on us hard,
And the ecstasy of escape seemed uncertain. 
There is no solace here. The cold will chill you into darkness.
The grey goes from dark to light.
A miserable keepsake,
Climbing into bottle after bottle.
And yet,
You keep living. I keep living,
A punishment unearned and, still, somehow deserved.
The nature of existence is simply that,
To exist.
Fuck Hamlet.
The point in pointillism is the bigger picture. 
Take pleasure in that fact, as you will get no other satisfaction.
Life is life until it is death;
Until you are forced to do it over again,
And find yourself asking the same piddly question: Hamlet.
Suck a dick, Hamlet.
Winter’s miserable bone is not to pick with us,
Winter is to love herself.
Darling Winter,
Her ghastly pallor has set upon us.
The most beautiful,
Darling Winter.
_bones_

The winters prison had bared down on us hard,

And the ecstasy of escape seemed uncertain. 

There is no solace here. The cold will chill you into darkness.

The grey goes from dark to light.

A miserable keepsake,

Climbing into bottle after bottle.

And yet,

You keep living. I keep living,

A punishment unearned and, still, somehow deserved.

The nature of existence is simply that,

To exist.

Fuck Hamlet.

The point in pointillism is the bigger picture. 

Take pleasure in that fact, as you will get no other satisfaction.

Life is life until it is death;

Until you are forced to do it over again,

And find yourself asking the same piddly question: Hamlet.

Suck a dick, Hamlet.

Winter’s miserable bone is not to pick with us,

Winter is to love herself.

Darling Winter,

Her ghastly pallor has set upon us.

The most beautiful,

Darling Winter.

_bones_