Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 7

Tinsel tossed tenderly on the tree of reality, life soon tangles in confusion of direction; for all talks of charity, compassion and comity of religion, the test is this: who'll give you a buck when you're broke!

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 6

Skeleton tree bared of leaf, slow movement in shadow, onyx sharp on a ivory key pressed; suppressed by soft pedals of ancient regret; plays in storms, plays, still plays on white piano: The Death of Winter.

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 5

Your way is in your vision. Follow it. Schools are scams. All of life is a long hard process of unlearning, of rejecting, of refuting what's been taught in state instruction. Who you are is greater than any state.

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 4

Auditors are not creators. That which can be easily verified can't be easily solved. Effort to confirm a problem of proof is higher, is greater, is of different order than method confirming mere computation.

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 3

A teal religion, a dark cyan, blue-green in its primary meditation, is what's needed to replace those that have made us calendar to seasonal servility. Obeisance is made to rule of law; this is profoundly wrong.

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 2

The heavens have become color. Turnstiles of light, emerald and crimson, swim and shimmer, fenced in formal rows, in the north night skies of winter; admit slender slices of blues and yellows to sneak on in.

Turnstiles to Eternity: Verse 1

Delusion and illusion, the two true trains of society provide underground transportation; supply subway inspiration to travel upon, to stay upon rails of popularity of prejudice, between the station stops of life.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 33

Flat taunts of rain, turned by the wind to sleet, whip athwart the streets. Heads down, collars up, the harried hurry, trying to walk to homes and heat; but by white gales are held back on this fierce night.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 32

Beauty is better than Truth, because Beauty is more truer than Truth; for any truth lacking an essential elegance; for any truth absent lacking single pure simplicity, is no truth at all. It's impostor and a fraud.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 31

To seek for something new, to explore, to simply go, and not to find, is what it is all about. Movement alone is the mission. There's no joy in museums nor in musty books. The sublime is out there, waiting.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 30

Winter is season of anarchy. Covered silent shrouded slumbering skies conspire to reflect the long snow avenues, filling the empty halls of streets; making there, the bare bleak mirror of nothingness, in White.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 29

In-folded chrysalis, That Which Is, is, only for a time and is inside Time; as when, in Becoming To Be, That Which Is took on coat and cloak of Time, as its mantle, to cause; to enable, That Which Is to BE.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 28

Heathen flower, wild in garden, you don't belong here; no word for you, no appellation describes you. Just be strange from the flora around you. It's this difference, this distinction, that gives you beauty.   

Season of Anarchy: Verse 27

Sea birds hum and hover over what's exposed. Despite cruel damp stink of death of out-going tide on a river strand, it shows, on wet sands on a bank, what's left. There's glamour in it: crabs that stare at us.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 26

The cut and slash of sarcasm is warrant for revenge. Who will, and in what sweet voice, reply to such a scarcity of wit? Who would speak of what we wished to say? Yet, still, we remain in silence at the hurt.

Season of Anarchy: Verse 25

Genius never sleeps. New wounds and fresh sufferings pound to stay awake. There's no answer to it; not even a question. It is what it is and what it is can never be what we would so want to have it be.