maMMotH cOCk eATiNg COntESt!!!
pSyCho bILLy & hIs gARganTUan gOOns
cIRcLE roUNd tHe rETireMeNT vILLaGe
(tHE tiMIng oF FLoweRS)
Above the dim hills, where the moon hangs itself upon every evening, I can see the fingerprint of years. The stars are not beautiful to me, they mar my vision of the perfect nothingness of sky. They are the markers of disease. A pox that eats the sky’s flawless skin.
How long do we suffer our own desperate limitations? I have endured mine through many moons. Consciousness is a meagre reward for perseverance when it lives as a virus in the mind, constantly dominating the spirit. Some men find God in the ruins of pain and failure, I have found only despair.
The vast expanse around me offers neither solace nor pain. It is a canvas upon which my life is haphazardly painted. There are no direct threats from the outside world, in this sense I am perfectly safe. The danger comes from an inner source. I am tortured by my own sense of infallible wrongness. What good is it to know of much but to realize nothing? My thoughts are riders through my bare-backed mind. They riot in the streets. I am constantly undone.
There are many flowers here in the spring. They are wispy, hillside flowers whose colour is watery and indistinct. I can measure my age by their yearly appearance. I am 57 at next flowering.
I am waiting for the end of waiting. Only the most disgusting and foolish of creatures can claim true independence of spirit. The wise know they are enslaved to living, in beautiful everlasting bondage.