Canto III: Celebrities at the Requiem March
Across the river across the river across the river Styx. Children who are singing about the directionaless destiny, the rest of the things that hold them hostage and warp their minds. The sorrow that leaves a mark benign. Heroin on a leash, a contract that was breached. Certain things you hear in their voices, emotional noises and life changing choices.
The Dirge used to talk of unmended seams and shattered dreams, but now it appears that dreams no longer drive and the whole thing is a disguise for the wiley plotters of everything's demise through a vale of small lies and smaller cries from the darkness where the scorpions hide. Lying in the dark, a trademark, a patriarch. Ending everything you meant to your mentors and falling to the wayside like so many other whores. There are valleys and tunnels storm clouds that form funnels all a part of the time ending plan to make you feel like an animal less than a man. Human, you feel in touch with the shards of glass as you walk over them fast, the trail seems as though it never ends and the pain numbs itself out until you reach the pretend end, but it's just pretend and once again, you find yourself in an end an end an end end end. The shareoin needle share, the dying needing people - care. Be aware, and leave the smoke in the air. Going insane isn't all that bad, so don't look so sad, you never lost anything you never had. Go with them to the bus the bus.
Just a bunch of words in a book, you had a look, you were not impressed, but that, you would not confess. You feel guilty when you undress, you feel stress form the spin, they lied they stretched truths they belittled you again. Taking the significant points and distorting them with their egos.
The people. They are for real, and the stories they bring you are true. The glue, the adhesiveness makes you want to address the real reason the seed was planted. And you are really enchanted, watching it, watching them, watching me. You focus out to a much smaller scale, the things that succeed, the things that fail. There are deserts, like I said, inside this oasis, and there are dead. Buried beneath the secrets you keep. The deep dark black sheep, running form reality, jumping through from destiny to destiny, never knowing where to start or where to en up at, sitting in one place, another set back, another friend lost to crack, it's not just in the ghetto anymore, Sagittarian suns are clouded in the metaphor, all laid out on the table in front of the tarot card whore.
You keep consulting the mirror, like your looks are something to fear. The fear, your face, your far your body. You cringe as you think about never being able top score a hottie, prospects are real, and the self-torment you feel to deal with the pain you dive into it again. You have to know by now, you are its slave, there's no way out. You hate to go you hate to grow you hate the growing pain the vein, it stares at you until you feel like a grain of dirt in a forest. Going along the path that many have warned against, the feeling of angst that leaves them looking like saints. They never knew about those like you. The pain threshold uncomprehendable to most who are willing to grow. It works for the heat but not cold. It makes you look young but feel so old. So many cloudy hazes so much bullshit. Just one bullet, the noose in the closet. What is the meaning you are left to ponder . . . the ghost of your father your father. Encapsulated in the composition of it all, the dust as it falls, your self sustaining calls to the world outside of the walls you have built around yourself.
The dusty old Dirge, the simple yet meaningful words. The singers of the song, its soothing sounds, the rights and wrongs. You used to hum it during periods of misfortune, but then again, so many shortcomings. Freespace that crashed down around you, the missionaries that lost and found you. Your pursuit of a dream that always seemed just one more gleam or fifth of Beam from your grasp as you take your last breath, gasp.
The golden showers that fouled up the flowers are what influenced some singers to become Dirge bringers. They sold their songs at a market in a dream, the kind of place that buys and sells souls, where sinners pay their tolls and where the hate of a million suns glows. The words of the song peak through from an elderly banjo player to you.
As the march of the dead moves steadily through the places and sounds so heavy, they bring with them great sorrows with no promise of tomorrows. Get on the bandwagon soon, it's only going to continue to consume. The doom, the gloom, the harem at the end of the rainbow where everyone has been but no one wants to admit they go. The heroin sheik hooker on the TV talkshow, the ounce of blow, and the answer that not even the Sagittarian doesn't know. That sound you hear, its always near and some people fear. I smell the incense from here. They tried to hide the candlelight, holding rituals for lost souls, believing what was last was just the remaining dreamers' cost.
The Sagittarian eyes seek out fortunes and desensitize. The killing the remorse, from feelings of bitterness and scorn. There are those who deceive and those who become reborn. They mean nothing with a wince of those eyes, set deep in concentration, an observance from the perspective of deep persuasion. Use those powers you were granted and the odds will be slanted. Let others use them on you, and you become its slave, it's true. Behind shades, hiding the eyes you give it another look and finally open the book. It is like a musicbox in a way, or when you open it, the Dirge plays. The dust settles on the freshly dug grave. The necromantic sentiments are saved by the priest in sable, it's all part of a fable which is what the song is based upon. A long, perfectly done tradition living up to the criteria and never does it get diluted by hysteria. The nineties is another ending, and there must be a great purging, it's why the Dirge sings to the earthlings born under the ninth sign of the Zodiac of Space and Time. Look to the constellations and remember the implications. It was written in the century that man and music met so try not to forget that it wasn't always so intricate. It is written in the book it is passed from generation to generation it plays forever between sorrow and temptation. You are its passion, the emotion, its fashion. To be heard by many, the influence is an entity that mixes the real and the impossible to reset conceptions when they are volatile. The rhythm of the funeral march is the rhythm of the Dirge, the voices telling you to end it all are the song's words. They fit together like hand and glove. It sings about everything, except for love. The march goes on, the tired red sun, the march goes on . . .
On and on it goes and it makes no friends only foes, for it is only those who seek their death who are forced to live on, broken and depressed. People who live people who die, people who rot, people who ask why. When if you just get high, you finally see a reason to try. Don't try to find yourself in a book that never leaves the shelf. You might be unique but don't try to compete. It is a fruitless feat and you will always get beat. Making an impact - to do it, the price is high. But to ignore the potential is a self-told lie. You got the eye, you are high ~ all you have left to learn is where to apply. I'm not talking about a job or school, you're the prodigy, your shit is too cool. Don't be a fool, and more as a rule, don't let them fool you. Think about finally being able to do what you like to do and not having to answer to an idiot who you wished would just get shot. The violence that you dream of upon these powers makes you focus on the goal for at least eight hours. Do you really want to stop half way? Is there anything else worth the pay? And should the pay take its toll on your soul, would you keep the role, quit working towards the goal, or sell your soul? There are thousands around who live underground, trying to sell their souls for the lifestyles they have found. They never meet the agents, which is just the way it is, so they live their life in squalor, their minds getting taller, but their dreams getting smaller. You can't read what I am writing because you don't understand why there is fighting between the creative forces uniting and the sunshine and the lightning. It's frightening when you thumb through the pages and think back to various stages of a life determined by wages. It's not likely that you'll escape the trap you set for someone else. The jealousy the girl in the house, the starlight the mouse. A squeaky little doubt that looms before the drought, which always strikes at the wrong time and makes you want to never mind. Never mind all of the wise men who told you the choice of fates in life. Never mind all those friends who were subdued by a wife. Forget all your roots, they are meaningless here, just have enough loot to get smokes and a beer. Is this the life you chose when you felt you were very close? Is this where you ended up the day you decided to go a different way? Who are you anyway? It's not who you think you are, after all is said and done, it's who you are thought of by everyone. From the stranger on the street to the women that you meet. There are signs posted on your head, better off a Sagittarian, better than being dead. Or is it? Did it wake you up this time? Are you going to answer to its call? What is the final question, after all? I doubt it could be about anything after the drought - because you know what that's all about.
Your mind reeks of frozen time and forgotten about shrines. Every goal you seen fall to shit gives you a new perspective on how to achieve it. But the dream dies as another is born, between the two, you are torn, being enchanted by the new vision while struggling on old dreams within. Let them die fast and swift, those who can do it have a special gift. They run strides longer than most can jump, their Sagittarian eyes shot out by junk. They lend their fears to the fearless, they wrench tears out of the tearless. The happy people cry, they lovers of life die. The magic only lives in a jar full of acid hits. Some people just like me understand how to turn the key. The key of nine, the Zodiac, the Sign. Nothing is sacred, nothing is outshines. Flagrant is the flavor of it, and it's everywhere you go, there is no shelter from the foe that taunts every living soul to lose moral control and give all to the Bull. The charcoal that is the remains of the lost souls. Keeping track of them is the job of someone that's part of something like a mob. There is never a missing link, and everything is there to drink. Don't think, just ignore the stink of a life lost in the blink of another Sagittarian eye. Eye, eye, I I don't really think I or anyone else can actually do anything to help. Speed the process up a few notches, steal the evidence on someone else's watches. Live to forgive, but die to forget. Because it is always right around the corner - it's never the last never the first, things could be worse than feeling the trembling feet as they march, feeling the pain start to form in your heart. Forget that you know why the song is being played. Ignore the spectacle as it is being displayed. Don't try to think of ways to persuade or think of things you can trade. Nothing you possess can stop the process. So you, like I, know you're about to die . . . how does it feel? Well, you're not alone - never alone, and the numbers have grown, and keep growing as the march keeps going. Is there any chances that you can change these circumstances? No, so you shall die like all the romantics that lived like the enchantress and always took chances. I feel your fear through your glances. The buzz enhances the mansions and beautiful women and paradise islands and all of the other things you never seen in life, like a wife, or a child, nothing but wild, crazy, lazy, hazy, recollections and dull reflections. Highpoints keep flashing across your brain like a crazy X-rated video, smashing a loss to your gain plight ~ a blade serrated for real deep cut throat, the bullet.
-braden
canto III
5.29.99
