67 rocks

in the surmise of an alcoholic metaphysical paradox. a dead lion has arisen in the cold of the crisp september sleet. this is the dilettante of opposition, of perturbation, of an erotica. this is the quandary of the academic sleuth, wringing and grinding, slithering and sliding, glistening and binding round and round the pedestal of dreams. it is the technical nature of critical inquiry. it is the remnant of a dying art, a dead poets civil-conundrum, in darkness and brightness of confusion. of exhaustion of a faculty of deviance. of the detriment to peace, a livelihood and a necessity. to be termed, shrewd and astute and heartless, is to live in a coveted reality of flint, frictional and cry. to walk the tarmac, unappreciative and unfulfilled. to be selfish, relentless and in an alcove of a fictional imaginary, to be the pretense man, impervious and stoic to the world of psychedelics and cotton rose finesse. to treat emotionality with contempt, holding coal and carbon boats, and oxygen rings. this is the construct of a strange, lone, paradox. a confusion of the confessed, the unbeliever and the political, the deluded and the hysterical, the double life of poly minds, in complexities jumbling and surviving in the complaint of a vacuum quizzical methadone reverie. to turn back and smile at the flirtatious, and the rigorous caricature of a self-sketched reconstruction, of a bemoaning, complicated, complaining idol gone tremendously insensitive. parched and burnt in the edge palette of the personal, the duplicity of character, the idea of ideals, the self confounding, the rough beseeching of the livable, the loveable and the empty.