The Art of Distance or a Ginsberg Howl

The disconnected becomes the connected and the earthly bonds are in sync.
The tainted waters release the inner realms shipwrecked on the surly bottom,
what bonds tied within exiguous shackles shall rip with every pathetic scream
of the needy who squeeze the essence of a new born pure soul, sucking dry
the healthy excrement that was shed, patiently, by the purgatorial trials of life.

72 hours, that is life within a snow globe clogged with grime and misdirection.
A life lived in solitude may miss the point of living, but yet may not and the 
opaque in-betweens that linger inside seconds become the moments 
many die for, try for, cry for and helplessly apply for, like some amaranthine
job interview that the bearer knows is faltering with every undying minute.

With every crest of syllables written here comes their wanton break, and the
freebooter’s who joyride such profusions proudly wear their grammatical wounds 
as their Jolly Roger performs an artful ballet with the squall-like winds conjured
by a mind ever at work with itself, as reliable as ink written on ancient vellum yet 
becoming more fragile with every year past, drowned by incessant thoughtfulness.

Displacement, the war of time and soul, and the few who sail the sea of words. 
What is being conveyed with what has come before? Is this just another artsy ramble
of an individual vexed by the tedium of linear thinking and actions, forsaking the reader
to release a Ginsberg Howl, to warn all ye who enter that pretentions linger around
every wordy alleyway and what is said is very little at the most; what felt even less?

This he cannot answer for it may be he who is the illogical, straight jacketed by creeping time.
It is he who has squandered what was scribed before, breaking the trust of careful thinkers.
And the realization that this, here, now, has become a living breathing thing, a story trapped
within a story, it is now self aware. The third, fourth and fifth wall broken and all crumble beneath 
the weight of digression and a mind in diaspora, becoming pieces lost within this piece.

The disconnect, time, and the painters, all facing each other in maddening glory.
The first stanza, like life, was meant to go in a direction that the 4th decided to deviate
from, breaking a personal tradition, allowing him to sit and dine with the art of distance 
within self. But is this for him or for you and can it be for both? Or is this the utopian version
of Hell and he has lost all sense of meaning? Maybe this is nothing, maybe everything, to him, to you?

View soulive2213's Full Portfolio