Lullabies Of The Dormant Mind

1. The Tempest (The Siren’s Song; The Banshee’s Cry)

I say!
Why do you grip so hard, that way?
Of what, is there left to be afraid?
Let the waves elope with your empty remains.
They erode your foothold, anyway.
They mosh, unaware of their own might.
Hypnotizing.
Shore-ward swallowing.
They storm me, ganging up on me!
What’s become of the home that suppored me?
They spit me back after drowning me then slip away dragging their fingers behind them.
But you expel the salt, sink down lower than the undertow would being you.
You just don’t seem to see how returning to them is so far beneath you.
But then how come my corpse — it rises up?
And it is my soul that has sunk?
Hear!
That sound rings out across the land, over the roaring waves, through every grain of sand.
Is it of loss and pain or made to seduce me?
Listen!
The oohs and aahs of funeral spectators death admirators as they bathe in ritual memories and fake tears.
Life’s underrated.
Jaded and hatred isolate you so abandon your fears.
As they spread my ashes like a bouquet of seeds.
Far up, far out… to show you what I’m made of.
Kill the parasite in every co-dependent brain fallen slave to the pull of the waves.
The pull of the waves; the natural decay of all that is made is how redemption is paid.
Say Dickinson, who do you blame for your romantic death wish?
And does it remain true that angry winds feel like a lover’s breath?
That’s why you grip so hard.
No!
It’s simply condition keeping me locked in!
I could escape if I knew how to swim!
Look… feel… you’re aided.
Wind, sun and strangers have come to guide you so the choice is clear.
As they spread my ashes like a bouquet of seeds.
Far up, far out… to show you what I’m made of.
Kill the parasite in every co-dependent brain fallen slave to the pull of the waves
Playfully badgering, casually capturing.
To escape the surface chaos is to sink — not to swim.
You say to release the stranglehold keeping me safely beneath.
But as the sea foam rises up, tickles my lips and sinks insides, doesn’t the choice of future paths become a matter of pride?
When I’ve struggled so hard to excel, why is it so unappealing to survive.

2. …And Their Eulogies Sang Me To Sleep

All I heard was the sound of fish who’d drowned.
All I saw was the inside of my eyelids.
All I said fell short of reaching open ears.
Word’s floating, clouding the view…
“See no, hear no, speak no evil” leave you deaf, dumb and blind, because the bad is all that you’ll find.
A deeply heart-felt goodbye to the part of me that dies when I decided to put others before me, yes, my heart fell asleep — boredom and fatigue.
I always said I wanted to die smiling, to pretend I’m at peave.
Now from my corpse beams a frigid, blank grin and once hopeful eyes are sunken in.
Like a lullaby to the cradle is the eulogy to the casket.
All my flaws swept under the table to grieve the porcelain doll that was me.
Their solemn songs sang me to sleep as my body escaped me.
Welcome down to the new world!
Happiness is being interred!
Such a shameful masquerade!
Fleeting, frozen minutes on display.
Why is evolution such a shameful thing to say?
Can you feel your bodily decay?
Arms are beside me, hands open wide.
Seems I was living my life in rewind, taking so many steps backwards, not looking behind.
Because I can sure as hell feel my brain going blank.
If my body betrays me, this pollution to thank.
This condition infects my cells like it controls my mind.
Internal army, defend me behind enemy lines!
Fragile vehicle of mine!
Don’t abandon me yet!
There is so much to live for that we so easily forget.
Fascination with the fear…
The concept escapes me.
All encompassing fate… how it wrenches out hearts, torments our souls ans sings us all to sleep, to an eternal keep, no matter what beliefs, it sings us all…

3. Thank You, Pain

So, lowly criminal, please tell me, how do you plead?
Now, honorable judges, ladies, gentlemen of the jury, please allow me to present my case…
Ha!
What case can you possibly present to rip a man from his family, faith and friends?
Defense?
Listen before you convict, you see, I never did intend to ruin anything!
Intent is a guilty conscience’s white flag against pride, so I find you guilty of the crimes.
I know, although, I don’t believe, it’s not only my afterlife I bereave.
Appeals will be denied!
The line of duty calls for an enforcement of laws, so you’re our property now.
Intelligence has failed you somehow.
Oh, what a shame you play this game!
Through senses, what can we explain?
Not joy, not guilt, not pain.
Is love the same?
This senseless argument in vain erodes my sense of shame.
Who’s to blame?
Thank you, Pain (for crippling my body)!
God bless suffering!
Thank you, Pain (for freeing my brain)!
For preventing me from returning to the source again.
So shall it be!
Now do you see the error of your ways?
Of rats and men you speak, standing up tall but you are weak.
A smiling thief.
We are all murderers, you see, but you let taboo human chemistry bling your needs.
Love is greed!
Logic won’t concede.
Think about the statistics you feed.
Think before you plead.
Through senses, what can we explain?
Not joy, not guilt, not pain.
Is love the same?
This senseless argument in vain erodes my sense of shame.
Who’s to blame?

4. Birds Elope With The Sun

Air like water, water like stone, birds elopes with the sun.
A velvet quietus furtively draped over ears
Quartz underfoot and crystalline opal tears
Welcoming webs of gasping despair
Nival anphora textures the air
Anamnesis waltzes through…
The windows, shut tight, and the fires are fueled…
Reminding naÏveté of its magnitude’s inferiority.
Skyward stretching arms become thin and weak.
Bony fingers comb the clouds then curl into fists, admitting defeat.
Blood concedes to gravity’s pull, leaving hollow skeletons all erect, perforating the skyline — an impenetrable cage… like skin drawn tight, and canvas cracked with age.
Escapist flights and lengthy nights as some succumb and slumber awakes…
Faces count minutes ‘til noon — solar ghosts come kiss the moon goodnight — grey memories for now.
A thousand families, down, will fall.
Nival tears bury them all!
Like absconding tides, birds elope with the sun.
A barren desert soaked in bleach
A sickly pallor and opal touch
Hallucinating, shattered glass falls as the atmosphere cracked and we are invaded by emptiness black.
The brain keeps the body company.
The continent is a new born, trying to breathe.
Accepting his fate and falling asleep, the child is a woman, resting in peace.
Accepting the sleep as a blackness forcing its way in and pushing air out through heavy lungs…
And heavy are the clouds that reach so deep and smother the land in a heavy shroud.
Eyes press closed and words are now visible.
The sky is an eggshell waiting to hatch.
The ground is the air, the wind, the trees, the Earth, the water, the fire…
Sculptors working the clay, carving angels and gargoyles, and columns as pixies dance to appease the leaves.
Faces that once turned to catch the light, frown and turn desperately down towards darkness.
Float to the stiff, grey Earth.

5. Waiting Out The Winter

Which is more elusive — freedom or sanity?
When one disappears the other follows so quickly.
Certain species, races, beings are gifted, you see, with the power to rob us of either should they feel so inclined, to bother.
The land is run by a man-made set of rules, described an Holy or patriotic tools.
Ethics are invented, although as a consciousness is not.
Adamant beliefs are highly protected and when challenged frequently emerge victorious.
You can’t speak, think or feel.
Severed wings never heal.
So justifies the kill.
Wait out the Winter under forced custody.
The static cold feels more like home than this open-armen penitentiary and we embrace the comfort of lost liberty.
So fictile is identity without self-governance.
They name the soul as an important part.
That’s why free-thinkers always feel so lost and desperate.
But every species has a heart.
And I just witnessed my first death.
I watched the last escaping breath.
I just saw a life turned to death.
For them to claim it doesn’t count is reckless, blind ignorance!
A cry for help — silenced — I saw her go…
I don’t know where, a frightened stare became a lifeless glare…
Suddenly she was no longer there with me, although I’m there with her.
I don’t quite know when it was okay to exhale…
The excuse-making race decides that breaking their own laws applies.
But, taking ANY life is wrong; I feel the pain for everyone.
Though you can stand, learn, still ignore, the weight of knowledge cracks glass floors.
Ink runs quickly, blood runs slow, so wait for the rain (red) waters to flood the snow.
Wait out the Winter under forced custody.
The static cold feels more like home than this open-armen penitentiary and we embrace the comfort of…
Disgrace yourself because you’ve caged yourself in.
Destined path’s and dead-end.
Eyes take snapshots from broken clocks.
Motion slows to a sleep-walk and senses shut down with the frost and All in ending…
Mental hibernation.

6. Martyr Art

Awaken, as from a tormented sleep with eyes anxiously looking to creep beyond this twisted dementia displayed on the walls.
Mysterious mindsets and ink-droplets fall.
Muses take flight in an all out war.
Shall I catch it with open hand?
Or let it fall and start again?
Such words burn the skin.
So, enter stage right, mic in hand.
Before the micro-cosm, stand.
Display my efforts, after all, don’t expect them recognized.
Hourly torture, chaos ignite!
Beauty and art give a sign of life.
But, as Balzac and Hardy profess, the martyr will burn for her canvas.
Elusive horizon, I’m not a threat.
You see, I’m for some reason always on trial.
Object of destination — always on trial.
O, Solitude!
With thee I dwell!
With thee I dwell is our assiduous, gated hell.
Trivial — this mind and spirit world.
You can’t compare their worth to what is real.
At its best, all critics must confess, this work can outlive death — so what is real?
Because I can’t describe half the shit I feel inside your crimes.
Targeted intent eviscerating innocence.
I swear I’m not a threat.
Put down your defense.
All I can do is watch in awe… feet raking the sand, hands bound by molten ire.
As the broad guillotine blade sinks into the horizon, streams of burning gold burst forth from ultramarine expansive veins and reach towards me, lending heat to the air, as the Earth is sliced in half and the dividing line approaches.
For every stage turned wonderland, for every sound turned song, for every song turned experience, for every hour turned long.

Accablées de misère en décembre, les muses se baignent en flammes.
Noyées dans l’ombre elles disparaissent, attendant le divin pientre de l’Univers, le Soliel

[English translation:
Overpowered by misery in December, the Muses bathe in flames.
Drowned in the shade they disappear, awaiting the divine painter of the Universe, the Sun]

7. Globus Hystericus

What says the Tree to his friends the Rocks?
When he lives and breathes they sit and mock?
And he grows strong, for centuries long, but one he dies and begins to rot.
“We will last intact this way! And you my friend, will soon decay!”
“But I can breathe — am commensal; the shade, the fruits, the nests on bough.
And if with this, my time finite, I’m glad to have spent it doing right.”
But Rocks prefer to simply sit.
To gain none, lost none, just exist.
But nary should an ocean rise, they’d become sand and disappear with the tides.
When trees ignite a cyclical life, from plant to animal to Earth and back; whom, even when their roots are ploughed, have left exponential impact.
And so, the greedy human kind, to conquer trees tall, mountains high, erects gigantic splinters of steel that shame forests, make mountains to kneel.
And progress spreads like moss on a stone.
Evolution dictates that men are prone to outdo those that came before.
“You see? We’ll last forever more!”
We improve what nature made.
We’ll challenge mountains, transplant lakes.
There is no confirmed master plan.
We do it just because we can.
But foolish is the one who complacently thinks himself King because when Time erodes the past what remains are Nature’s things.
Quite Shakespearean duals, those between parent and offspring are!
As Chronos devours his Son, Gaia to mankind so starts.
Metal rusts, cement crumbles.
To err is human, not divine.
Prayers are so intently mumbled when proud man is forces to decline.
Steel, concrete, technology may stand intact for centuries, but faces with wind or flood or quake, like toys will crumble, bend and break.
I say with actions what you do with words.
For we’re the moss; the Earth — the stone, so let us do as did the Tree.
For silence will long be ignored, and action recognized quickly.
We won’t outlive our generation but our impact surely will.
This — the Rocks’ humiliation — when they witness we are still alive in what we’ve left for others, like Nature gives, so selflessly.
So pay respect to out true Mother and take your rank amongst the Trees.

8. Swan Lake (Op. 10 — Scene, Act 2, #10)

[Instrumental]

[Tchaikovsky (A Cappella)]

9. The Sentient

Here once stood one hundred million speciae, undiscovered until extinction.
Here once stood unnatural amounts of prey turned product — mechanized slaughter.
The Sentient flaunted their machinist superiority — an ersatz compensation for real instincts lost.
Millenia of ancestry, polwed down for modern industry; the solution to their housing crisis was in fact the cause.
So, why not humanity for habitats?
Because they’redamned if they do and damned when they can’t!
Euthanasia is a crimeless death penalty , but it’s still better than what they get when they’re tortured, brutally murdered, because some fucking coward can’t make a clean living.
So he picks in the voiceless children;
“Well, they’re not smart like us, they won’t feel a thing!”
That’s a fact? Please explain!
Why should we even care?
The things that we destroyed did not need to be there.
And we know what is right!
It’s survival of the selfish!
The bi-pedal tyrant goes down with his ship in the end.
Here once stood invented laws and morals, applicable to selective followers.
And.
As such, rulers reserved the right to control matters of death and life.
…oxygen and oceans…
Metal rusts, cement crumbles.
To err is human, not divine.
Prayers are so intently mumbled when proud man is forced to decline.

10. When The Bough Breaks

Alone… she was… and we face this journey alone…
Helpless and weak, dependent on others’ decisions and needs.
But who’s to say what is right?
To protect a soul or to save a life?
Is it a plague or a gift — the ability to create in the way of the Gods?
We are instinctual artists.
Atlas had nothing on what we’ve got.
When half a race carries the weight of existence and society shuns most circumstances, reputation screams to conform and cast out anything deviating from the norm.
The only way to believe your lies is to spread them far and spread them wide.
Creation like a limitless universe… but boundaries are what defines your size…
Wake up.
Remember nightmares by sharing them upon gaining consciousness.
A flooded nation is soon to spoil so wave your flags west!
Equality will never be attained when blaming Eve for the sins we’ve gained.
A fighter untilthe end — but sympathy only kicked in once she was dead.
The sacrifice of a life, or rather an exchange, instead.
Pity, regret and sorrow turned to hope, but even then the newborn winds up dead.
Black — white, wrong — right.
Quite a simple hypocrisy.
Since when is an accident a responsibility?
If you play God once, I can play God twice.
Give me the decision and I’ll handle the fight.
Materialism now subsides.
Tradition exists when no one has the guts to change.
Someone asked me what difference One can make, one day.
For we’re the moss; the Earth — the stone, so let us do as did the Tree.
For silence will long be ignored, and action recognized quickly.
What if?
I should have…
Hindsight always haunts me.
A thosand Judases could never stop me.
Slings and arrows disappoint and taunt me.
But I’m not wrong, and I’ll sacrifice everything just because I know the way since the beginning.
…hindsight always haunts me, and then the bough breaks.

11. Chlorpromazine

I awoke to a complex chemistry.
So, I went to a neuro-surgeon inquisitively to see what she could see.
But she knows only what she’s taught so I turned to a Tree to see what he thought.
And he asked: “When does three equal plus one?”
The answer is Birth — Life’s creation.
Then suddenly flames rushed past.
Green turned to black, and life turned to ash.
Because I believe in everything, I’m convinced of nothing.
United we ran — divided we crawl.
It just takes a common enemy to make a friend.
Marry hope and fear, invent a colour.
And so, it’s gone as quickly as it came.
Raging tides galloped forth to extinguish the flames, and , thus, was born in a cloud above.
But all else was gone, and one plus one equaled one.
In harmony with gravity always bringing everything down.
Tear out your mother tongue chlorpromazine incursion — the rights of the voiceless will be revealed.
Flesh is food and bone is stone.
A grey-matter cause for inner demons’ microphones.
Fields of shells that lurk in murky waters.
A bed of nails for less traumatic slumber.
Logic’s tough but brains are sweet, we’ve served our sup for the demons to feed.
Projected self loathsome apathy redefines reality.
Paranoid self-victimization in a cage of skin; rage and intimidation lack of control bring a once bright life to stone and ice.