yeah, I use to recite rote mantras in Tibetan
like the Manjushri's di di di di di di di, man he was juicy concerning mental Mercury n' words that see, clearly - that 'n others reading the scripts on long sheets of idiogrammatics written in 'lil tics --
nevertheless, light reaches the eye, bounces around inside 'til chemically driven, you sigh a wonderin' why, all these reflections are a cussin' conjectures 'n objections, becoming brainiacchtungs that are rungs down the ladder of your holes, where all your dirty cloths goes --
and you get sick 'n tired of slogging soggy jeans, that means nothing more than you're wired obscene, mired in the darkness of obsessisve bad dreams, dead-locked and it all seems to be about you, about you, oh it's bad --
but when all the words fall from synaptic trees, contraries 'n clarities, oh won't you, won't you please, dive deep up there beyond your event horizon, your suffering version of the inner idiot disease, and it's something farther than you'd ever seen with eyes blinded by the light of 'lecktricity, with reflections bouncing off of your mediocrity, back to where you've already been --
oh, but you want to, you want to, get it back so bad
after we'd recite in alacrity, we'd meditate on where the words dare not go, 'n learn to relate about what we did already know, in a language only that the heart can show, and it's clear 'cause it's not about you, no, it's not about you, anymore...
No comments:
Post a Comment