Witchcraft Mirrors and See-Saw Opinions

Witchcraft Mirrors and See-Saw opinions. An angry silence. Victorious time, and the music wants to rest. Does she or doesn't she? And I inform myself that she mustn't, as I look through the cigarette fog toward the window. I try to remove her from my thought and from the movie going on at the cinema inside. Its a lantern evening and my book is on the shelf, discarded. It has said enough for the day. I feel the warmth of a a memory and I dwell on the idea of certain moments lasting for ever. I dismiss the idea almost immediately as being fanciful and dreamy, yet I don't convince myself. the silence seems to be gaining peace now, it has looked upon itself for understanding. It wants to reach into me and gain my approval. I will not stir. this evening, I don't want to have to befriend any kind of silence and why should I? when I have known it so recently to have been angry. and she, or a version of her comes into my mind again. Perhaps there is someone to accept. The summer reclines, decides to disappear for a while. I offer to taste its warmth, although unclear. there are voices in the silence, up for discussion, consideration. Light lives on, finds a way within. Love is lateral to the light. Black is not black and white is not white. Mystery pleads for freedom. Children play, with truth in their eyes. Colours are confused, but yet invade the world today. They have looked for meditation and understanding and no matter how confused they are they are colours nonetheless. And from witchcraft mirrors and see-saw opinions a winning hand is ready to be played, to define the colours of confusion, right here in the 'now.'

From the Jungle to the Zoo

Pretty poetry swirling around in the outskirts of the wealth of the picture of my intention. And later on there is leprosy noise after the mouth knives of self-attraction. It lingers in the heart sometimes, like a pang, like a look that controls. It fades and peace is restored and peace then allows the silence, and that special type of personal freedom where you can think what you want, and you are completely ignored. And then there becomes that time, that clockless moment of truthful isolation. Peace must be a solitary thing until it turns in on its own self-consciousness. Then there is the need for simple escape to the jungle, where the clocks tick and the lions roar right on time. And inside my head is like a museum sometimes when its late and dark and the night crawls over me. The night knows my tales. I cannot evade it. It corners me, to make me do the things that I most want to avoid. Another picture for the gallery perhaps? I protest that I no longer have the inclination, and that because of this, any art I create will be tainted in mediocrity. Day is born again, gives me freedom back to me, but suggests a plea that was heard from the night and asks for further consideration. I look at the day and think of the night and wait for the clock to stop, until the moment can live inside of me and inspire me and motion me to motion. And from the jungle to the zoo lost in her shadow, cursing the darkness of her memory, yet wondering about who and how she became.