Chikpea. Stop. Smoke, then start. Hapspur. Do it. Chanceless monkey. Observur. What's to say? Nothing. Days go by, I get high. We wait and wait, and as we do, the change continues. I'm still devoted to the grey-eyes. Where it will lead me remains obscured by the forebodings of present. How can I get anywhere when I seem to wait for inspiration? But when it comes, it's as if I call upon it. Why don't I always? That's what I should have learned, what I should remember.
Beat underneath the ground,
feet stop to feel the pound,
shaking roads to the side,
lazily tossing about the tide,
holes like stars burst wide,
lesions of fire creep like snakes,
winding away from the sun of lakes.
There was a big explosion, then sound. It was unlike anything dreamt or unreal. It's power sucked us whole, and we lay dormant for many a year.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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