Ancient apercus from July 2007

Self-reflected inner orange sadness

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, July 25, 2007 - 20:53:01

Clean cut and down the middle with ruminations on weary streets and roads made of tears. Rivulets burn canals in the craggy surfaces and only the chewing forces against the wind — a massive beast of amorphous delicacy — take the stir. Streets made weary for lawn bowls sake! They never give credit for the ones who fall first or for those who take the detour from behind and come up through the other end.

Tunnels, of course, are over-rated. All dark and leading one way from each end. Where the other is looking to head in the other and it's clearly a sign for narrow minds. Head long into the spot light at the opposite end with an intent forward looking. Turn around in the darkness bright eyes and catch a spot of bother.

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Life goes fast, make the good things last

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, July 18, 2007 - 12:44:46

Take a night and watch it take a few more in return. Dusk to dawn and that's the business of the race, of the game with no name and no players bearing faces distinguishable from the anguish and the longing wish. Run with it and watch from the far side of the smoking bush. Where they all find the small red berries that leaves the far end ruminating with smoke of its own.

Counts of heads are useless in the fluctuation of nature and an abhorrent existence marked by futility. Watch out for one another and watch as one and another fall by the womping wasp of dust as the sudden fall takes them to ground. Scratch dust them there and only there as the stains trail lines flowing freely into the pools of hardening reds.

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Familiar logic from a future dimension

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, July 11, 2007 - 16:30:02

Crushing bay leaves between the toes for a sparkling sheen of raspberry delight, and oils drip from the noses as the eyes wince in the heat of the sun. Hot under the shade of the non-existent shelter, aghast at the thought of waking up into the night's dusty ventures with dentures loose from the rot of gnawing at visions in dreams wet with acid rain.

Cracks of thunder without lightening, down by and along the ridge over the other side. Char grilling the sizzling fingers and feet, red and blistery with sores of beds made from marsh and bones. No aliens to speak of here though, only the foreign vessels sneaking in creepy edges, lying shallow.

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Approaching the moon with balloons

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, July 4, 2007 - 19:50:26

Hearts set aflutter with the butter and oils by the camp side fire. Fluttering and drooling with the rotation of each turn on the spit. And there it is, there be it with a warm glow about its very essence. Hold the core and squeeze for the juices as there is only a need for more when the tasting begins.

Sweet tasting as it will be and as it ever is to be. For this is what reams a seemingly paltry beat.

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