Turn the dial just a few times more. Past the useless dribble, and straight to the only thing actually worth hearing. Granted, given the in depth level of content being transmitted, what more could you ask for really? Seriously, change the station, and be sure to withstand any further need to tune your black box tedium. Get caught right in between the beginning, and the now. Simultaneously co-existing within your vicinity. What you do not see remains lingering, regardless of your ability or desire to pick it up. I'd suggest you settle in, keep warm by the residual fire before the cooling off period. It's a fascinating thought this roller coaster ride, reaching us subtly on a daily basis, catching signals and glimpses of an answer on hiatus. See, I love that noise, that universe light, it's a personal choice, my "god" given right.
We are all believers, or non-believers even. Better said. Seeking that moment of birth that brings it all to light. It is a possibility, it won't, or it might. Unknown it very well could be, I couldn't tell you, and you sure as hell couldn't tell me. We can all just focus in on that which we do or do not see. Grasping it quickly, and reluctant to set it free. I know that I do not know, that's one thing for sure. As sure as change, and as sure as death. These questions forever under our breath. Holding on to this idea in a disbelieved state, that nothing is certain, and there is no waiting gate. Perhaps we've arrived just a moment too late, perhaps it is not real, maybe even fate. But wait, that's something else I stand so firm on not believing, every thought counter acting, and is already leaving.
How grand, that a thought, aware or maybe not, sends a signal from one spot, and reaches swiftly its destination, And you meet in congregation, all to preach your revelation. I see you sometimes, alone, or in the masses. Pretty in your innocence, funny mirrors kissing asses, and through the crowd it passes on a new way to destroy. How delightful it is with your hands before your face, with your butter on the table, and your mouth chock full of grace. Considerately now careful not to go down under, and find yourself choking on this regurgitated blunder.
It's lovely how this light, this static fills your ears. Passing on through galaxies, and traveling through years. It's an answer in itself, and a question all the same, how it is here right now, and how it all became. And so the godhead preference is really just a claim. An excuse for higher power, furthermore for blame. Clearly we all have our sights, and they're set on what they're seeing. Mine, this fuzzy static, and yours this supreme being. Filling in your spaces, and so here I'm filling mine. We've got it on the station, this beautiful sublime. Residual radiation passing glimpses of its prime. I can easily see what you see, your fanciful divine. Fuck that, I want this static love, this seeing through the time. A fundamental fabric of mystery and maybe, a gift from it's exploding birth, my static, big bang baby.
© Carla, 2011
We are all believers, or non-believers even. Better said. Seeking that moment of birth that brings it all to light. It is a possibility, it won't, or it might. Unknown it very well could be, I couldn't tell you, and you sure as hell couldn't tell me. We can all just focus in on that which we do or do not see. Grasping it quickly, and reluctant to set it free. I know that I do not know, that's one thing for sure. As sure as change, and as sure as death. These questions forever under our breath. Holding on to this idea in a disbelieved state, that nothing is certain, and there is no waiting gate. Perhaps we've arrived just a moment too late, perhaps it is not real, maybe even fate. But wait, that's something else I stand so firm on not believing, every thought counter acting, and is already leaving.
How grand, that a thought, aware or maybe not, sends a signal from one spot, and reaches swiftly its destination, And you meet in congregation, all to preach your revelation. I see you sometimes, alone, or in the masses. Pretty in your innocence, funny mirrors kissing asses, and through the crowd it passes on a new way to destroy. How delightful it is with your hands before your face, with your butter on the table, and your mouth chock full of grace. Considerately now careful not to go down under, and find yourself choking on this regurgitated blunder.
It's lovely how this light, this static fills your ears. Passing on through galaxies, and traveling through years. It's an answer in itself, and a question all the same, how it is here right now, and how it all became. And so the godhead preference is really just a claim. An excuse for higher power, furthermore for blame. Clearly we all have our sights, and they're set on what they're seeing. Mine, this fuzzy static, and yours this supreme being. Filling in your spaces, and so here I'm filling mine. We've got it on the station, this beautiful sublime. Residual radiation passing glimpses of its prime. I can easily see what you see, your fanciful divine. Fuck that, I want this static love, this seeing through the time. A fundamental fabric of mystery and maybe, a gift from it's exploding birth, my static, big bang baby.
© Carla, 2011
