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of no turning back, as back turns, turns out to be turning point. Since no back turns, no point is made. It turns, like a never ending story. Unless it does not believe to be turning. Since the earth so to say turns, who learns to proof the move? Returns to the sum inside? Disproves its twist? Dispel your mist. You've mist the sign. Do you really believe it is real? The earth, a turn? Burn turn till yearn is none Churn it to butter. Like a sea so turned, there is no in or out. Everything turned inside out. Till none exist. Drive off mist which thoughts provoke. See it through. Past the joke. A grave and earnest trick. Not of the kind the kind will make. With kindness that does not go beyond. Which lingers in between. In the middle of points. Turning like this, then that. Aiming for yet another. A last. A definite and certain point to make. Like nailing one to a cross, saying it is hanged. Fastened. Certain. While the only certainty- what is the point? Who is pointing? Able to finish? With a dot so tight, no wate- stop. End it. Whether groovy or goofy, no one bothers when it is done. The end. None remain. Endure pain, unreal as it is. Don't waste time on what it is saying. Cut the crap. Look for the bottom. Ponder the deadline none survive. Dive in the sea, oblivious. To be forgotten, deep. Not to be thought of, like during sleep. Rough it may be. Though guided by a wee - what is it called? You may say yourself, seeing this self through. Like the blue behind cloudy thoughts. A sky without asking why. Even who is no matter for those who 'chose' the choiceless. A bit less? Perhaps? Words come out, it is said. It is like throwing water towards the sun. Never wet. Not able to say what it really wants to say. Unable to be who it wants to be. Not up for a burn, it ends up soaked. In bed. Sucking, on make-believe. Believing Dick is real. Not yet aware of the puzzling crosswordiness in between of where it - sucks, doesn't it? Bucks ain't worth it. Flux prevails. Outward and in the air. Where ninety-nine point nine percent dies. Only one who claims the remains. Silly fool it is. Look up. It shines, son. Not holier than thou. No glory at all. It appears. Like horseshit one wipes in stable, unable to remain stable whenever weakness appears. Grabbing into feeling, image and word. Such as hope. Within hopelessness, though. A wee pic inside the big. Until it dissappears. As appearing seems to point towards what seems. Just don't pin down who seems to be writing. Seaming up words. With no point in mind. Nor to be found. Or to be made. Thus, copycat mimics like all, a dot... or three. For an end is not to be. Try it. There is no conclusion, see? Who is interested in me? In the ceaseless 'pee' that comes out. Not winding up. Not minding who you are. Despite tricks deceiving. Like you may do, too, aware or unwitting. As a liar known by those who lie. With honesty thrown like towel. Behind lies to cover up, hide, launder, say, marriage. One horse, the other carriage? To marry merry Mary? Why? Why wed at all? What fear it subdues? Ladies and gentlemen, what does it see, what ring bearer does not? Or the other way. What am I missing? It is made up, my dear. Make-up for fear and wake up, ye fool! Get unreal. Stop avoiding the inevitable. Anything it can use, it will. It's endless. To stay away from angst. Keeping the baby smiling inside. Not coping misery. So we say no to sorrow. Don't want it. Yet believe in it. Otherwise it seems unreal. Which would make loathing impossible. Like 'love' and therefore hate. Hate me. Right in the eye. Behind my back. There is no point. No point of turning back. |