Kings Without Queens - 2001 Draft Pt. 2: \"pit(y)\" (The Original Draft)

pit(y) Kings Without Queens - 2001 Draft Pt. 1: "goodbye"  you know its sad when you know what you want to do but the grasp isn't quite there you see the people who can and you just sit and stare they're called influences but I call them depressants because everything you want to try they've accomplished and the efforts of your pen or your vision not only pale they flake away in the moonless wind no light here only more and more depth its an illusion you see darkness does not create it only veils but that's a commonly understood truth if I were a Dylan or a Tolkien or even an Eliot it would be stated in such a profound way but everything's stripped down all the offerings not only are lack luster but the pretensions truly painful truth's coming down all around I'm not a dispenser everyday and every nite sit and stare trying to find trying to discover exactly where I fail and every time I make the attempt it becomes more and more dismal its not self pity its frustration of course comes from a knowledge that's not there and a memory hodge podge at best myriad of influences buried in the resonance of sound broken stretched disfigured and disemboweled all the times they come close a bright sun comes into play shows the defects and what needs to be shaved and there she is standing and laughing, pointing and not understanding speech has long been lost between us its just point and click, point and stare the occasional laugh the distance between us never grows shorter and the love from within only pales everyday the vision is being lost and there's nothing to do but cry or so they'd have us believe coming down into the sun's rays glorious days long forgotten melodies someday perhaps she'll understand the drive that drives me spurns me makes me yearn and then mocks me not for ambition but for that which is impossible the women come and stare and the men just nod and travel on where I've never discovered its like being in a cage a random cage confined forever everything is seen thru the bars its all the rage you see its all the banging I'm bleeding and it clots up making it impossible to write but not improbable to dream its that that really kills me the dreams become more focused and the artful vision more shoddy it's the execution of the masterpiece that hinders me how can one so young be so constantly tired consumed in the rage not against anyone in particular but in life itself and most of all God it just seems there's some better way than the way he Chose but even that's part of the cage like a mentor said (to be forever better) if you argue with God you're sitting on a tree branch and cutting that limb off he gave us the reason how can a tributary rise above a source and how can a person come out of this seemingly forever limbo it's the wind blowing and the sea moaning no disguise for the wicked or the inferiour no scattershot images inviting interpretation just plain spoken words broken over a misery sand lot we come from the north and the south and the east and the west all directions in one furious orgasmic moment deepening into the chaos we come closer not to its truth but the illusions so vital to maintain that what we think of as living but the philosophers and the stones and the sea monsters of ether-lore know its truth these illusions do not aid but mask creating a riddle sea of emotionless dreck broken down menagerie scattershot wadding a man and a woman walking down trying to cross the river water ferocious and boiling searing and killing they dive in trying to rush the attempt and perishing not even half-way thru it's the life of an artist they say build the elaborate fantasy world to escape the depression and then as the world falls apart because of lack of talent the depression becomes even more real and, strangely enough, the illusions even more tangible and the truth seemingly so far away the truth comes in sharper stabs and then the illusions come in festering away your blood's not red but transparent the life force is not feeding you with oxygen instead its feeding you with cancer and misery and crushing defeat every time I get close the goal post is moved further away and then I see its not me that was close at all it's the hallucigenics and you say life is good it's the tiring effect coming back and instead of numbing me making everything more intense all except what little joy has escaped into my veins I'm getting closer and closer to the edge and this is the truth we come with the clouds in our minds and the rain in our pants power of procreation not to enter into enlightenment but a sharing of more misery hurt ramble shack the body houses yet another potential disaster and its not this we were created for and its not this we were destined every time I want to move but it just keeps coming back to me the memory of you and me and us squaring off with knives and guns stabbing shooting killing trying to slit one another's throat and the cosmic referee just sitting back and laughing it's the illusions you see chinese water torture has nothing on this glasses don't help you see they only blind you further its in your own power you want things to lie and its that another slap of incompleteness that really gets you even when you do what you know is true or try to at least anyway you know its not good enough and it never will be and you can never get to that point you want to break free but you must understand the fetters are so thick teen feet thick and never will they be seared we come into the new form not to try to understand but to be and see our existence only more further corroded called the wasteland of the emotions but its not its just further proof of existentialism the domain of this mind lies not in the collective unconsciousness but bleeds hot poison into unspoiled individuality every time it comes closer to get into the boat to leave for home the ticket stub is rejected and the time to go is delayed youth in this culture knows only two things sex and love and neither are connected to anything real any more they've become parodies and self-mockeries the truth had been put on top of a grain elevator and everything down below has become the poison of the masses shown delight we turn it into perversion shallow intrusions into what should be the Marinara Trench limited grasp on an otherwise impossible sequence coming from within to without from shouting to a silent whisper shiver the wool hangs thick and the grape dies on the vine shaken stirred houses of faith being burned not by the pagans but the believers come down further into this realm of disbelief come down further deeper up deeper in another lifted line from another misery master taunting me you want this I have this you never will and then the desire becomes more intense and my love only laughs at me more hidden in the arms of some blasphemy lover the distance between us only widen and we're forever separated or so this eyes sees and the perception becomes aware of its limited intellect but she continues to laugh and the kingdom goes up for sale sold to a merchant at the cost of a rotten fruit cantaloupe shellings shallow misdwellings conformed not unto that of which shall save but the tired form of yesterday's future and tomorrow' past one just born and the other non-existent shaking not from the fear itself or the cold but the confusion of the fear of the cold I turn and she remains there and I turn again and she's disappeared for how long I cannot guess this realm is without a queen and this king is without a crown stripped and given a crown of thorns beaten into submission and crucified on the railroad long hair descent shaken broken yet once more time it's the incest you must understand everything's fleeting and the illusions tangle themselves into an Rorschach test lets analyses your intellect and see where've you've come from then they smile and think and it turns to a frown cities of illusion birthplaces of fear alleyways of ghost and carnival crowds of sheep shears crowing around no one will leave this town can anyone take me out of this town I'm an old man buried underneath a wealth of facade youth and the train leaves and I sit here once more waiting waiting waiting............................  .. Kings Without Queens Trilogy Poem 2: "pit(y)"  (The Original Draft)Written October 26th, 2001 © on Oct 26 2001 05:41 AM PST, Michael Edward London    angst • dark • life • love • lyrics • personal • sad • society • spiritual • thoughts