Rantings Of A Madman
The soft pitter-patter of water on a mossy roof.
Red staircase.
Solar panels where the sun never shines.
A rope.
Two thin ropes dividing life and a four-storey quick vertical run down.
Would need to. Would need two.
Heh.
Two times four equals eight.
Eight stories enough.
Eight stories is life.
Life is made of eight stories.
A boat off of the side of the walls, crawling down.
Waterfall.
Water. Fall.
Fall.
Berlin wall.
Red staircase.
The brick fell from the skies.
Dark sarcasm: it is a sponge.
A sponge of murk.
Mirth.
Murk.
A murky sponge.
Red. Stair. Case.
Nutcase. A sponge.
Clean your face, he said, and gave me a red sponge.
Red tears.
Tear down the staircase.
It can be used to escape the wall.
Red wall.
Dead wall.
Waterfall.
Snap back to reality.
The water breaks.
The roof falls.
Green everywhere.
And now orange.
And now red.
Fire! Fire! Fuel! Fire!
Stone. Sink.
Like a dog.
Stink…
If you stare long enough, the world turns into an acid trip of fake smiles and hollow happiness.
You don’t even need drugs if the air is filled with cyanide.
Wall? Flesh? Skin.
Sonorous skin…
These are thoughts.
A watery thought now,
The boat is made of thought.
Thoughtcrime.
Kafka. Boat. Pink Floyd.
Thoughts are clouds upon which we soar.
I thought I’d soar upon my thoughts.
So I spread my plastic wings on an ashy sky
Down me, I thought, with a gulp, to the alcoholic.
It used to be so green.
Now it’s all red.
Like bricks in a kiln.
We’re kins being killed.
But no one killed me.
Before the law, there was a wall.
A loop, a loop!
Before death, you see your whole life flash before you.
Up until the moment you die.
Right at that moment, you are about to die,
You see your life flash before you.
And an endless loop.
Death is a black hole-
The closer you get, the slower time gets.
Little Boy. Wrong Boy.
Stories?
Stories.
Eight.
One.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Thud.
Green world. Ash: when I’m burnt.
Red staircase. My last standing ground.
And I fell a lifetime ago.
Now I’m floating…if only for a half-second.
Calculate the speed with which X falls down after eight stories have cut him dry.
Who called me a story-teller? I’m a story-climber.
It’s coming back to me now.
Not fast enough, though.
Red all over.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Oh.
Beep Beep Beep Out of Time
Red staircase.
Solar panels where the sun never shines.
A rope.
Two thin ropes dividing life and a four-storey quick vertical run down.
Would need to. Would need two.
Heh.
Two times four equals eight.
Eight stories enough.
Eight stories is life.
Life is made of eight stories.
A boat off of the side of the walls, crawling down.
Waterfall.
Water. Fall.
Fall.
Berlin wall.
Red staircase.
The brick fell from the skies.
Dark sarcasm: it is a sponge.
A sponge of murk.
Mirth.
Murk.
A murky sponge.
Red. Stair. Case.
Nutcase. A sponge.
Clean your face, he said, and gave me a red sponge.
Red tears.
Tear down the staircase.
It can be used to escape the wall.
Red wall.
Dead wall.
Waterfall.
Snap back to reality.
The water breaks.
The roof falls.
Green everywhere.
And now orange.
And now red.
Fire! Fire! Fuel! Fire!
Stone. Sink.
Like a dog.
Stink…
If you stare long enough, the world turns into an acid trip of fake smiles and hollow happiness.
You don’t even need drugs if the air is filled with cyanide.
Wall? Flesh? Skin.
Sonorous skin…
These are thoughts.
A watery thought now,
The boat is made of thought.
Thoughtcrime.
Kafka. Boat. Pink Floyd.
Thoughts are clouds upon which we soar.
I thought I’d soar upon my thoughts.
So I spread my plastic wings on an ashy sky
Down me, I thought, with a gulp, to the alcoholic.
It used to be so green.
Now it’s all red.
Like bricks in a kiln.
We’re kins being killed.
But no one killed me.
Before the law, there was a wall.
A loop, a loop!
Before death, you see your whole life flash before you.
Up until the moment you die.
Right at that moment, you are about to die,
You see your life flash before you.
And an endless loop.
Death is a black hole-
The closer you get, the slower time gets.
Little Boy. Wrong Boy.
Stories?
Stories.
Eight.
One.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Thud.
Green world. Ash: when I’m burnt.
Red staircase. My last standing ground.
And I fell a lifetime ago.
Now I’m floating…if only for a half-second.
Calculate the speed with which X falls down after eight stories have cut him dry.
Who called me a story-teller? I’m a story-climber.
It’s coming back to me now.
Not fast enough, though.
Red all over.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Oh.
Beep Beep Beep Out of Time
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