The myths of time are scattered about on the desert floor.
Vern Bender
Playing the fool for you is always hard to do. Your obdurate response was always tricky for me to understand. There are fools aplenty for you to abuse. I’ve always known that your diffident demeanor was more than a pose.
Speech that is based on the cubism of the mind is understood by few. Your mind’s analytical cubism doesn’t integrate very well with mine. Relics of the past are swept away when speaking in that way. Your mind’s analytical cubism doesn’t make much sense, anyway.
New modernism is always just a few creations away. Change is always on the move, apparent or not. Sooner or later, existing traditions will fade away. New combinations are constantly being made. Relevancy is not a static thing. The antecedents are prolog to the past.
A blighted mood is always close at hand. Wastelands ingested into the mind should never be given any mind. The dead sounds of defeat should never be acknowledged.
The myths of time are scattered about on the desert floor. They glisten under the desert moon. Fashionable tropes come and go. Coherence is overrated, anyway. Echoes and murmurs run through the shadows of my mind. Fragmented poems vector around in my head.
A sinuous syntax, you will find, is more apparent than real. Cultural winds must be traversed with carefulness and trepidation as they glisten in the midnight sun. They hardly ever offer hope and charity.
The end of the day is spreading across the darkening sky. The day’s white silken clouds turn gray until they meet the darkness of the night.
The rising of perfidious intent was flashing in her eyes. Cheating was on her mind again. The warning signs of intent were sparkling again. She was having visions of the cheating side of town again. She told him that she’d be late again tonight.
The loitering rich are heirs to their cities. They wait in splendid accouterments and style. They surround themselves with the best that money can buy. They go through one trophy wife after another. These trophy wives are status accessories only. Their lack of intelligence doesn’t matter anyway. Looking good and pretending elegance are the only two requirements. Her past is buried and is never to be brought up. Her season in the sun is a fleeting flash.
Fragmented ideas lie dying in mid-thought. They never had a chance to go anywhere. Contextual attempts go off to die in perfusions of chatter.
The responsibilities of freedom are many.
Don’t concern yourself with things that matter.
The day after doomsday can’t happen, anyway.
A solidarity volcano of hate always ends with a mosaic of despair wrapped in a cloak of darkness.
Repressed thoughts manifest themselves but never play out in the present.
Critical knowledge is formed by content, context, form, and analysis. Your point of view is created in that way.
