Tag Archives: Murder

Comedown


flower

i don’t pay attention to the weather forecast
for its broadcast with the same gas I pass from my ass
on a perilous day my awareness grew vast
like dead hands of the past
immeasurable as the ethereal dimension
i can feel its attendance traveling on my skin
directing connection perplexing affection
i can feel the invisible ones watching on
in the shadows of dawn

and when I wake from a slumber grave
and when I lay to sleep off consciousness
i can feel the various factors of providence
i can feel the different ghosts from every consequence of yesterday
i can feel the young man’s murder on Sixth Street
when I heard the gunshots that night
and how I read about his death from a corner away
from where it happened with lack of astonishment
and yes, he may be gone in a physical sense
but he’s not forgotten
i can smell the hot blood of the junkie
the authorities in blue left on my doorstep
and I’ve never felt so powerless;
veracity can be so flowerless

i’m close
i can feel the edges of supernatural empowerment
aerial contact prose
i can feel the rush of the present
a spiritual meadow under my perceptive nose
a subtle pulse of anything goes
echoes of unapproachable distance
feelings of insurmountable brilliance
i undergo glimpses and experiences of a concluding death
i hope won’t arrive catastrophic
and it makes me cold
there’s a blinding light bulb out in the crossroads
it shines and speaks of all the lives I owe
how time is loan
and I must return to where it’s infinite on each of its matchless codes
revisiting a question mark, a veil I failed to recall

-Pennington

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A Dark Nyte Episode



How does the night begin without a day?  How am I triggered by a sudden charge of energy hysteria that lashes outwards to emotional outbursts?  How do I allow myself to relax and let go of the tension headache that disguises itself from holding back the cries?

So there was a story earlier of someone who worked with someone who knew this person.  But it didn’t start there and nor does it end here.  There was a mother who bore two sons.  One came out normal and the other had (what doctors or society identifies as) mental problems.  The kid with the mental issues would have trigger attacks and he would break things inside the house claiming he saw evil spirits.  Eventually the mother decided to put him in a mental institution when he was 17.  He stood there until he was 21.

The doctors told his mother that he’s been progressing and he’s now stabilized.  She spoke to her ordinary son about taking him out the institution.  He didn’t welcome the idea and said they should wait a while longer.  Her mental son came out and it was only a week and things seemed to be better.  Than something triggered him and he saw his mother as an evil spirit and bludgeon her to death with a stick.  The other son came home to find his mother dead and his brother watching television as if nothing happen because he went back to his normal.

And than I rambled on to someone tonight and it went like this without edit, without grammar, without thought, just here in its full written evidence:

And stories like that make me wonder, stories that repeat itself, nothing is new under the sun, everything repeating, everything seems like an eternity..

And its all decisions, and all choices and what for?
Is there more?

Even if we make all the right choices, during the time they may have seemed right, but later with consequence you find out they weren’t.

And this bothers me.  So much bothers me.
Living bothers me.  Thinking bothers me.

It’s what I think about that bothers me, not so much the external.  But the internal, like these thoughts.

And that dream I had a week or two ago, about life repeating and it’s all about eternity. And how much I panicked and hated it even when I woke up.

-Pennington