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Pure crystaline brillant morning had snuck it's way up to my footsteps. And slipped her soft fingers through my hair. It's golden welcome was layed upon my door. Now I stand on the edge of a mellow lake and scream curses across the distance. I watch the ripples of my hate spread in cancer across the smooth mirrorlike qualities of it's solid/lenient properties, I watch them embrace the brisk spring morning in now terrible envy. I can hear Keats sitting against, long. Singing to a nightingale. It sounds like he's crying.
God, I want to meet that man. To meet all the words attached and watch them spew awkwardly from his delicate mouth. To hear the acsent. To hear the man, in consumption, drowning in his agony. I would not save him, every great artist was always more prolific in the heart of their addictions. We welcome the morning dew and soft ground under us. I can hear my curses in the distance like a low cloud. Like a wild echo, flowing erotically around like the loose hypnotising smoke of incense. Its smell invades my nostrils, its noise resonates in my ear. I, alone, against an impossible body of water. I, alone. And in all my petty fury, a stranger on a bank, I realize that i'm still drunk and it's 6:00 in the morning, I send her asleep again. But as I turn my back, I witness all the divine ecstacy, I cannot deny it. I can only breath. Only feel, reach out for it's Spanish rouge, and gingerous smell.
Morning bring me prayer and food. Forget your habitual rise and worthless routine. Bring me the great denial of lucid life. So I can once agin search for meaning in it's depthless misery. Everything I am struggling for is right under my nose. I am breathing and digesting my potential meeks, and vomiting them half consumed in the lap of society. I a feeble anthropologist in purposeful ways. Morality in gray. Lost in an eager place. Let me sit in water while. Release myself to this soft envelope. Release myself, like a feotus in this motherly embryo. Let me start over again. This time not in such quick procession, but in steady pace. With a story in my pocket and a hammer in my slip. Let me start again, simple. Sane.

© 2007 Layne L'Heureux