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Urban Hymn (Still working on the poem - will update)

Urban hymn -The original poem is lost due computer struck by lightning- Posed petrified professional proprietor Progressing the inevitable advisor Life is a guide that can't be bought A lie on the line which relentlessly fought the way into another dimension Streets further by In followed as A reckless drunk Posed as informed by Possessing evil ideograms of soldiers collecting Evidence on life When they followed me into the absent curly sacrifice Of regretting to deny The personality is a moving reflection And the institution is a color of believing as if minding The constancy of time, when all-day general sophistication Is trying to convene superstition, the way you think mister, Deserving a memorial substitute life, the tribute to a soul Presently coverted bribery within the mastered conflict Surrounding the general public See I've never asked for much This is where I live And must I say that in other words? Should there be another song? See I've never asked for much The fundament of engines See I've never asked for much Domiciles the ancient repentance of all known… There she left the scenery Big bucks trying to split the mean Into another Where a life could amaze? Where articulacy in certified moments Drives the fellow into abrupt conformed unified guilt Thus words as these would have happened every day Then there's a night A darkness reappeared into a shadow so great And a lady fair, would seem into the importance of thinking; "The uttered word as below common sense -Letters of a mind Reactivation of the soul institute" A sip - never brute The certainty of her expression Seek Frantically sermon What in perfect memorial The diagnosis of a beast Reminding a certain past The intricacy of a sermon caster Fretting, silent, shadows over the air Moving with distance, a shout "Come clear!" The diagnosed beast Reminding me of a certain past Fretting, silent shadows cast Moving with distance over the air As in shouting when near The skirt and the artist Following her, with his eyes, in the park What she says to the brightness, The pertinence that silver touch cries for the dark, would I have another See I never asked for much She followed A mystery begets the lonely The tale of a soul A secret society The strange loner A lamp lit from the corner of his cabin

Urban hymn II

Deep shadow. A curtain climbing up and on my back. Surely I would have known this before? As an apparant judge utters a steady word. Embracing the possible. What time has to provide for our situation. Every ten minutes another look. A look around the corner. Where the errand boys are running. Learning. About the construction of time. As where do I belong? In a tick. In a tick. In a tick. The embrace of time. As the next shadow will look exactly the same. Will think what I thought. Will know what I knew. Will point out in the air - horrified by the thick evidence that I was there. Progress. There is a tomorrow. The embedded moon glittering distantly against the window. I'd shown my shadow! What information do you need? Tomorrow is a bright day. A day for the young. Where in all known terms of obedience in time. All this time! All this time! Should I know the secrets of your shine? I know that you taught time. A significant point. Where do I belong? Who am I? These sacred moments prying my imagination. You told me so. The mist. The flower fields. The greatness. Nothing else but knowing. I am knowing. Would I feel the returning past while showing an enormous affection? As told. You told me now I tell you. What you lost out there in the vast merely points out where I should walk. I've done the talk. Forgive me. As in what could I know? I would still have found you.

Urban hymn III

A break. I never worked. On the impossible. Words uttered failing to advice the consultation in these stranger words. They are mine. They are mine. They are mine. Then I have to know me. I knew I’d have to know me. Certainly she said when I asked her if she had time. I own time. Time is mine. Time is mine. Time is mine. Then amidst the flowers she turns her head and looks on the field with a bow. Further on she stares at me. Congratulate my insultive conspiring evidently boyish imagination. She is about to configurate the protest that time has on people. See you tomorrow. What is today? The next is better than a spring day in may. This could be tomorrow I would say. Then again I wouldn’t know. Cause all I presume is letter by litter by latter. Inform me. Inform me. Let me know. Thus far beyond my dreams are the figure of her imagination. I know her today. Tomorrow might be after. The touching dream. The famous sting. The certain swing of things. Dancing on the graves. Further. Further.
Further. Something caught my speak. Would it be a ring full of wind showing me trees. Trees trying to get a hold of me. See it would have been easier back then. I wouldn’t have to feel shame. Shame is known to be false when there is no regret. And life. Life is shame. Then I knew I could borrow a feeling. Sit down please. A dream within. Sit down please. All I knew would be of purpose I am. You may stand up now if you’ve stopped dreaming. Their instructive constructive abolishment of trying to find truth as in where is it - rots into; I define what is truth. There is no game. I am only me again. There out the window a paper plane. Look who wrote his lies on it. Trying to smoke cigars in the classroom without creating an outrage. Together we are when we have fun. We speak. I speak. She speaks. Oh forget and forgive. This solitary consult is full of denial. Denial of regret. Then touch her dream I think. As my shoe shoves a small rock into a flock of birds I know its time. I can own everything but my dreams just seem to leave me. Then a wind so gentle it saves the lost words. A wind which speaks to the blind. Then I know this air: “The words. The moments. The purpose.” I don’t need a plan. The wind is hungry for my dreams. And its constant regime decides: “When you know what freedom is you’ve lost it.”

urban hymn IV

Delinquent opposing what is understood as the forging moon cries for control. Could I subvert into controversy. The instructive. The introductive. A constructive. We proclaimed as situations into dust. Fled the conspiracy as in a must. Where do I belong? Who are these people? What are you talking about? As then again a shadow defends me. And I know the reason. Simply.

They tell me. Never exposed the continuancy of certainty. Where as when it begun I remember when I was young. It fell natural what to say. Then they taught me to be sure of something. This is natural as I am sure. What to know is another question. The what to know I never learned. Three square feet of a circle.

Then a retribution: The sanctimony of truth. Would I know - is being sure.

Urban hymn V

The hours late foretell me a question: Why any shortcut to disaster? I saw once the miracle of life. Then I witnessed the customary insultive imagination of incidentally proclaimed communication. Why you live next door? One looks for the other. The way a boy looks for a toy.

The day I heard that someone stole me. I’d dare not suffer. Why you make time an hypocrite.
The oddity when I understand? Lead me to a chosen path. Spoken out! What is a question? Who rightfully understands a supposed influence of time. Time and influence. Sometimes as a criminal configurate which limits time to the provider. Who constructed time? Who directs time? The way I understood time. Thus always sensing the scattered wasted imminent. As if I could know what next. As if the second aware that it causes the next. As climbing a horse around midnight by following the shades of a ticker. Instruments coach incredulous nature of knowing. Where did this begin? Never did? When I’d known I knew that past and time to move on now.

As within my days passed I’d known the next for the last.

Urban hymn VI

Elegantly the poisonous improving their understanding of grey mornings. Religious entropic convulsion of a hawk flying high above. And then they stood behind me. Watching. A fort sake carriage systematically advertised. Where as a lonely man is serious and when he laughs the clowns cry the moon of estimation. The sooner the latest programmed conversation. As what I say. What I say is what I am. They knew me for that. Respectfully endangered materialistic words. This thing of mine. This thing of yours. We shared a thing. That brought us into a context, a surrounding atmosphere. I flew. I used to fly. Then I reappeared alone on the mountains where the birds stopped singing for food. Happy mountain. Rejoiced enslaved sacred where the shadows danced to salute each morning. Hunting air diamonds. The clown was never allowed to dance. He moved around. He moved his legs around his head. Then broke down in a bow against the middle of a circular curve of informal bystanders. These chaotic things I know. Water. Earth. Wind. Fire. Form a circle somebody else invented. The shadows dance within the circle. And the woods are mine. Each tree. I reapproached the knowing. The day I wanted became night. Shared constructive imagination. Almost petrified by the earliness of devotion. Divine devotion. Crystal clear imagination. My thoughts. My thoughts I am not thinking. Then a friend telling me I could buy them next door. Thoughts for sale. Thoughts for sale. Shadow souls. Shallow shows of retribution. Pay me grace. Pay me days. The arisal of my dreamscape. Where I neglect every reason to die. Where I speak every dream while I sleep in flowers. Some dreams I threw away and into the next. In this I regret a purpose of denying. Wish there were miracles. Every day is a miracle. And when night comes it leaves alone the very incidental moments I hung onto. There tomorrow on the shores of riverbeds I salute the coming of the next. Lit a light out on the streets. Again a friend falling asleep. This beautiful nightmare. Every drop of water on my head a small tease. Spiritually enormous mountain up there where I captured moments. In a land so foreign to me. I set to be free and when I returned they didn’t know it was me. Counting days. Pleasure in her ways. The ghost that still prays an anthem for the fallen rain. This is easy. Ran off to hide again. Capturing a sole systematic proclamation of a raindrop. Easy as a raindrop. Changing as imagination. The personal one to another. I listen. I listen to the angels at night. They give me words. Then light stole. Every single amused soul climber. Hunting the century we lost to mechanic economical dream walks. Hurried young ones running on time. The sane never left. The subscription of definition. This fits me. This light and shade fits me. My feet the continuance of time. Centered fool. The importantce of working. Move this rock I sat upon out under a tree and I will explain the construct of words. The clown never lies. Never wishes for anything. Never desires. Look at him. This is who he is. Nothing more pure than a mask you can’t tear off. Probably for the best. This mask is inherited from ancient age. Truth is time. Time is truth. May I glitter on. Eye shadow. Fairy cloud. The narrow path where chosen one hides from true evil estimation of conserved memorials.

Urban Hymn VII

There. Once again the wiff of hair. I progressed back then. The existant nothing. Where I fear the enclosure of a ticking clock in an attempt to freeze time. Severe time. The abuse of time. Hurry now. Hurry now. Haste on. The mountain is plain. No trees before me. Where suddenly a massive crowd stops at the shop. Hawling rocks in early childhood for fun. The crowd are fabolous. In the midst of a configured early misunderstanding. Where I privately sought to ammuse. Constructive area. See this morning light. A sun-seizure. Late night again. This used to be tomorrow. Living in a castle. Living but not alone. You got a prayer for me? See the soul flat. Arrive late. Leaning at streetcorners. Walking down an avenue. Counting cars. Impossible to get through the traffic. Every day simply today. Loosing track of time on the other side of this world all by myself. Another word the next miraculous seeking. Looking at my wristwatch trying to estimate glory. The shadow I saw is more of a story. Walking. An old lady in her grace giving me soup. Think I am poor again.

Urban Hymn VIII

Restricted time - a cloud before the sun. Dancing shadows. With this cloth the adversary I stand to greet. Could my enemy be my feet? Seems today has begun once more. Another. First amongst many to construct evil feelings which admire the creature in the woods. Carved sculptures. I knew the way back home. Into this city so far away. A ticket in my pocket. I bought me a beer in south america. Never thinking evil thoughts. Looking at the women. The birdman that tricked the world. I am the freak you pity. Before this city. On the corner again. Right leg over the left. Certain young uptown woman in red dress by the supermarket. The wind in her black hair. Every second clearing my thoughts as I walk passed her. So beautiful - the sun cursed a moment. A shadow. The buildings. It is day. Mind the traffic. She walks. Never seen anything like it. As if time. Runs into a cab. I never got to know her name.

Urban Hymn IX

Every second the minute of an hour. Before I lost my heart. Irregularity. The sense of statuary dreams, rightfully ignoring the fashion of a normal life. Take a look at the surreal impaired moments. I see rays. Teasing me. Disappearing into a flock of men. Where my private idea of reality finds release. A sense of freedom. Facing a crowd. Oneness. Collision. Where is my shoe? What did I do? Fever while I watch television. The absolute of thoughtlessness is to think another. Would these words give me the comfortable nuisance of writing ones self. The days of nothing. The nights of daze. Can’t get her out of my head. The flat all lit up covered by flies. A rooster shouts that morning. Dismay. I’d love to. If I could. When should that be? Acquire the outer most fear. The absolving loneliness. A sun that shines as it arises to everyone. Today I’ll have a walk. Fascinated by trees. Where do I belong? Could someone explain the implied function of talking to life. I shake. They’d shook me. The fever is getting worse. I dream I am flying high above ground. To a certain amount of intoxicating pain. Evidently this might be yesterday. As I feel the clouds. I remember. You ever seen a splendour coming out of dark creepy alleys. You ever seen a thought? Before my eyes a humming bird silently pursuing his duties. I couldn’t ask. There is no time. Why do I fear the powerful regrets I deny myself. Not doing what could be done. What I wanted to do. It is another day. While the brute vacant emptiness I know. Finding me. I’ll hide from the abstinent colourful insight of pure vision. The greatness of talking to one’s self. Looking not only into an instant of regret but into the eyes of infinity. Today is forever. Letting me talk of the fear knowing an abyss without a ground. A groundless well. The aspiring constructed beliefs. To amount. Why did there have to be a question? Afford the gasp vast territorial surge of leaving this land. True. There. Amongst friends. I could reattach the vast opinionated single word together. As I stand alone. I assume she’d known me by now. Internally seeking progressive ticks of a watching time. Sure about this? I don’t know what I am talking about. Thus concluding evidence of my perceptive life. I see what I am therefore I live.

Urban Hymn X

Confusion. The invitation. No letters. No words. Merely an instrument of detention. I went through the punishments. They never investigated. See what to do really? Accidents happen. I presume the constant illness of a friend is what dangerously amused the instrument to proclaim. This nation of what I am? I found myself in the middle of nowhere. A life in exile. The great things I’ve experienced as a child. I do understand how they must have fealt. I never ignored the inhabitants. Now I feel free again. Though your hospitality exceeds the limit of what is legal and the limit of what is respected among the more or less lost persons. Presumably what they taught us. Not a thing. Nature in the large city: One starts to question if these things really move. Soul information? Now you know who I am. Regretably you quite didn’t respect the invitation. What invitation? They never asked. Information. What do I need to know? I know where I am. I regret to inform you this is not where I shall be. Certain of the luck today. Certain of what is to come. The way a man instructs without orders as he feels? Black shades on a Sunday evening. Tolerant sentiment on a restricted area. Since when is a sickhouse a place to declare. What I’d know. Laughing at the top of a roof. Who would want a king to observe the inside of a prison? Recently I believe that the way in which I were treated as a child growing up in a foreign country actually had nothing to do with it. This stranger in my dreams. The wake my so called family provoked me. Secrets? I’ve never. Well seemingly this is another song sung - singing for the audience. I enjoy evil solitude on nights in which people feast and regret. There is no evil in me. There is no strive after confident involuntary instructions of other minds. I am free. I love freedom. Years gone by as days pleading ignorance to a nation that never actually treated me as they should have. The word on the street: Signifies eternity. The supposing these people won’t let me know them. In the lonely woods at a border a man arose. Why would a mother hate her son? Why would a father hate a son? Presumably the only idea of being free: Is freedom there by my name? Think all you want to think. Think of me as a devil in disguise? The freedom is of the fallen that may rize.

Urban Hymn XI

Pure instinct - mere thought. Grey aromatic construction. Denying imposition of wealth. Consuming great fear. To commend the attic of sanity. Walking down the road of perceptive mindfully instructed ways of thinking the same. It is fun to think the same. Knowing a systematic involuntarily amused creature in my mind. We are all the same. A point of view from a balcony or out the window. Detail work. Assumed identical insinuations. The question. A question. An insult of possible vacant hotels. The inside of glorified monuments. I know the streets. Passion for grey. Positively attended a part of the crowd. Thus sense of freedom. Reminding me of the art of begging. Systematically impoverished masses. Driving around midnight. Statements. A cup of coffee under a streetlight. Neon glowing visions. Closer to paradise. Hobos asking not to insult the public good. Free soup around a corner. Determined to employ a simple life. Relativity. Would you know me for what I am? Asking some gentle people standing in line if they’d ever seen the window. Making controversial idiots gambling their last savings. Thirteen mirrors. Walking in a dream. Wishing for invisible benefactors to appear. Watching trees. The evil moon. Shaking hands with people met before. A chaotic character. Hardly pointing towards a sky. Fearing morality. Internally. Remembering. Never too astonished by thoughts. It’s been a few years since. Standing outside. Ever seen a cripple with a fever? Thus waking up constantly. Trying to see clearly. What cruel words? As they fall into mind. Freedom is momentary in a sense. See if you’d ever seen the inside you’d start thinking things are fake. Plastic. Cement. Empty taxies. Relent the private blue skies. Enjoying street signs and numbers as a matter of fact. Credibly buying sunglasses in the middle of the night to seem purified. The touch of weakness in a dream stronger than a proposed individualist manifest containing guidelines on how to gather riches. I can see now. Reminding me of misty godlike statues. Who owns the night?

Urban Hymn XII

For reason - of time. Cultivate destiny. Measured dreaming. Without this hypocrite instant fooled by advice from persons chasing perfect life. Saying you are perfect at first sight. One way to avoid implemented credible insults. Life for the living. Autonomously controlled by certain sentimental feelings. Passing another new building today. Watching. Who wants to control massive realization of eternity. How it appears in single moments. Calling a split second. Screaming into the night with power and might. “I live.” Couldn’t gamble today. Another house for the poor. A dream telling me to shut up. These days thus happened before. The amazed to be alive. Newspaper boys telling the word of the street. Falling in love with misery. Seeing gentle folk moved to tears by the infliction of truth. In the eyes of beautiful dread. Needing someone to tell life is hard. If as in a sensation knowing everyone. What is the public good? Evidently we can change things before they happen. “The short evidently try not to see what is over them. The tall might fall for what is under them.” Irrational sensation of justified memorials. Answer a gesture in her face. There are many a fault in every man. I know reasonable sense. A cloud of memory. Distinctly trying to understand. An effort to understand everything. These fears. Existing within to know the outside. Deciding to make up my mind. Stumble drunk upon the remains of what used to be. The night is young, it is my friend.

Urban Hymn XIII

A frame. Lights closer to the surrounding emptiness. Punctuality. The essence of time is in control. Relief. In and around. Gently touch the ground. Watching the horizon sweeping mother nature as mountains shaped in grace as if involved in a dreamscape rare and amazing. As if dreaming awake. Reality. Grey reality. Informing reality. Questioning dreams. Doubting human nature for what it seems. Creating evident instruments of a supernatural construction mind. Easy as snowflakes. Satisfied by immortalist points of view. Deadly as a sting. Reminding me to fetch the mail even though it is cold. Outside is within. Credibility returning. How is this possible? The element of life. Inform certain bystanding members of establishment there is no reason to cry. Misery never left us. Creatures of the horizon. Endlessly embracing it. A second sky? A blind minute. Dreary old stubborn drunks trying to prevent irrational agreements. Conflict of certain morality. Is freedom a dream no-one dared enter? The clouds of memories. Pure instinctive shadows of ghosts. Taxies. Inform the customer. Speak up loud. Wishing for the drive of tonight. Credible expression. Real life. The fling of spiritual supremacy. Factual tribute. What is in your eyes? Putting on a frock. A garment. Implied customary beliefs. Introduction to the ethereal nothingness of another way to think. Thinking what you do is like never trying. Realizing every tick of eternity. Wish I could stay? Feeling rather stupefied by early morning headaches. A reasonable understanding. You found me in a moment of distress. Art is life. A message. Hanging up the phone. Watching freaks in amusement parks is as a look in the mirror. Avoiding underestimated colourful humour today. Estimated natural silence. The matter in hand. Standing against the wind. Furious about the little things in life. Chosing to deny emerging change. Returning to the end of a mystic moon kissing. Wanting to know destiny. Empty stomach at the end of December. Winter. Under the influence of poverty. Thinking in an attic. Walking back and forth while smoking. The finger of reality one self.

Urban Hymn XIV

The moon in mind. Great timid horizon. Centered deviant fog. Determined to understand her greatness. Dance around in circles upheld by pure youth. Explaining to the moon which wouldn’t bother. Inside her the soul lives. She is like an eye. Watching her. As if we knew eachother. Sinking deeper into her realm of crystal white gloom. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Each scattered ray reach shining bite. A wood sacred to all her might. Credibly enough someone might have stolen her today. Knowing there is no need to pray for her to stay as mighty way she knows the road back home. She is stubborn as the image of immortality. Beauty in her is no crime. She saw the beginning of time. Inspired. Moments as these. Alone with the sence someone has always been here. Sometimes her shadows walk with wind shoes over blue ice crystals. No wolves crying. Tension packed within walls. She could shine through me. When I reach for her, the village silent, and no fears or nervous sensations. Moon. Grown moon clothes. Soon shown to further extent the very reason she shares her splendour with darkness. Mends into black. As if veiled in garments of pure ether and trailed by instinctive beastlike creatures. Most of the time I’m glad to see her. Her presence as guiding light devine. It is almost as if the universe is speared. Shun on me this night a figment of her as fractures in my soul awake. A tear derived from her is a feather in my heart.

Urban Hymn XV

Monuments watching. Statues talking. Needing a walk alongside the river. And beautiful as time itself the buildings remind of necessary information. Sometimes it is as they nearly move. Observations of time. In time. Within me. I should really go. You want me here? Enjoying a day for a decade is like someone pinched me on my arm. Resolving factualism. Intentions. Good intentions. Preferably a matter could be mentioned. Are you there? This description of an age old reminder. Leave me alone. As if nobodies there again. Then the next. Dreaming statue made of gold. Know where to walk now. Know where to go. Standing forever isn’t easy. The expression in grey. A statue growing old. It is cold again. Someone is sold in a desert and the stones keep crying crystal tears. Know your fears. Nothing as concise as a tree in the middle of a city. The trees are talking as well. But only tonight. Soon there will be consistence of conversation. In a café. On a pub. In a market. The statues are selling rocks tonight. Not blaming them for telling the truth as they portray it. They really don’t know me. Then the dark sets in. And light starting. Starving light. Hungry night. Out for the proposition there will be an end though it isn’t seen someone knows. What is there to know about greyness. They have eyes and ears. Each corner an escape to another world. Possibly standing on corners is the most sensible thing to do around here. Strange how they’ve grown when the sun sets they appear as shadow to me. A shadow. Walk right through them. Become one of them. Is there another way to know a situation? Normal eyes. These streets are talking to me. These people put wind in the sails.

Urban Hymn XVI

Stranger than a cloud before the moon. The modernist aches. Someone shook me out of my dreams. Life is what it used to be. Estimate the realist to endure. Figure happiness assured. I remember my dreams. Strive for beautiful feverous mindful regrets of doubting the necessary. Arrest me in my dreams. Where I no longer embrace freedom as a right of nature. Stature. Seeking knowledge. Loosing interest in roads. Building a bridge to my soul. Where words walk. Where angels talk. Sky’s white as chalk. Incredible laughter. Delirious dream. Free winds blow against arrogant trees. Where standing still before a sign saying “no entrance.” Portraying personal distress in a junkyard not far from where grey buildings haunted with memory assist the knowing. Coming to visit the wise. Tell me what you know about life. Irrational sentimentalist arranging to sustain what nature? Describing thoughts to an audience in the dark. Sitting under trees at night. Trying to count the leafs in moonlight. Uttering another sentence to a fellow. Seemingly opposing to resist the ignorance of youth. Cautious to avoid the growing age. Suppose there is one? Knowing. Seeing. Listening. Standing proud before the constant lure of time. This instant. A sip of coffee. Mighty good everyday harmonic sense of naturally knowing. Sinking deep secure. Knowing for all good reasons only to question doubtful meaning. Somebody knocks on my door. Conquering the word with a briefcase. Mind the everlasting glorious sense of routine. Internally. Inside. Wouldn’t need to hide. See the way things work. Difference suits established. The new today’s. Abducted by rationality. The personal lie. No one knows what life is and there is no need to understand it. A thing. An idea. Carefully observing every instant detail. I knew back then. Somebody wanted something else. To think religion makes you peaceful is as if trying to explain a cat not to play with the mice it’s caught. Partly the information. Understand in quiet. Explain to me if a piece of paper is the key to your mind you are afraid of people. The up front soldier in every man has he’s legacy written long before. At the start of time. The beginning of history. Tell me what was the first word? Love, God, you, me? Fire, food, night, day? Hand, stand, run, sun? Innocence.

Urban Hymn XVII

Barely admitting the assumption of all good nature. Thought in my head. What to know. Who to be. Ignorance of all rational sensation. Leave me alone. Tears of the insane. So many clues to a mind’s puzzle. We aren’t playing games are we. Negativity towards innocence. This me? Then. Clouded by to much agony the focus of relativity. Only knowing what I once knew. I struggle for the uttered peaceful advice. Comfort from guiding lights. Knowing the streets aren’t evil tonight. The resent of nature. Things appearing. Dream things. Blue is the shadow of ocean from beneath the surface. Imagine the creepy construct of degrading one’s freedom to a room locked from the outside. Seen many things. Compare the sarcasm of destiny. No one’s behind it yet there is a plan. What creature to blame for reasonable shame. Life is. A tree stretching for the skies yet holding the ground. Leaving all known places. What is it like to grow up? Knowing yourself by being lonely. Touching a wall for entertainment. Watching clouds as if they were great paintings. I know now who I am. Half a day in front of mirrors. Someone is in there. Shut the door please. Drinking to amuse illusive words appearing as if they once were lost. Closer to nothing. Closer to nothing. Closer to a dream world where life begun. The all imposed question of doubt. Denying to reassure me of reality. Getting money. Money is happiness. There is no need to talk. “A cup of coffee please.”

Urban Hymn XVIII

Friendly. The hour late. Another day has gone by. The hard worker comes home with a bad conscience. Looking at her. Another night under the hammer. Since forever what is seen. The mean expression on his face. As if the ghost within is waking up. Knowing that every day of time on somebody else’s account is a privilege. The stories he never told ring in heaven. “If you ain’t tall enough to reach you may climb.” Finding truth in his eyes. Beaten truth. This kind of honesty isn’t easily found. Wishing to be stronger. The fruits of strange memories. See the twilight zone. Once the old where young and free. The insurance someone needs to know. Asking why? Constantly. Getting no answer. The reasons are always self-explanatory. But what is a decision? Internally wounded by suffering. These buildings have many ghosts. Watching the sun bleed in a land of sacred nature. Seeing the moon cry on the night of hatred. Show me an away. Am I born to this? Walking in the forest rain. Embracing every tiny moment. Waiting. Waiting in the rain. A sure sorrow. A certain fact. Another tomorrow in the pleasant blatant noise of trees swinging in the wind. It is clear now. Imagined beautiful Sunday mornings. To be alone with the wind. The information. A lost word.

Urban Hymn XIX

Portrait of laughter in a cloud. Found sincere nature. The ice in her eyes. Perception of deception as I walk the skies. Where the spirit of nature hides amidst rain of gold. The cheer a calling for what is told. Within this man. At the pub. Steamy patriots. The hungry cried a certain call in which poverty is kind. Sometimes. Naturally they sense kindness in a bottle. Presumed found naturally. The insane laughter. Bus ticket. Framed the innocent. No man’s land. Regretful of doubting nature. See this man talk to shadows. On the origin of words. Understood. Blessed immoral youth. Lord almighty. The nerve. On systematic rhythm. Watching stars at winter. Seemingly bound to nature. Foretold a story of kindness. Let love reign. Emancipated distant payment. The wealth of rational function. Light shines proud upon the faith of glory. Understood. What do you know? Reasonably enough. Then they found privacy to be earned. Yearned for. Doubting the sincere. Honesty is wanting to believe. Fear. Into the morning light. One to follow. At night no shadow’s cast. At stakes the past. Deeming relative beauty. As is who would follow nature’s calling. A sensation. Years passing by. For a second of love, no found pity. Teaching law. Money-makers tribune. A newspaper. A pint. A girl looking out the window. Moments. The irrational sense of sorrow. They know what it is. Then passed tense. Understood. Foretold. Cast out. Realizing immense feelings that are gone. Cracked ceiling. Reassuring the wild wolves nothing is the same as they run into the wild. The art. The nature. The life. Being my father’s son is enough. Time. Running in a forest. Foot before foot as passing trees. Thus. Understood. For nature. Blessed sensation. What if a building grew taller? What if people grew smaller? Portray the innocent bystander. An hours work. Work for a day. Pay me a minute. Concise repeating. Constitution. Admire a lost case. Lost in the wind. Lasting sin. Pure is the mother’s tongue. Assuring evidently. As cars drive by a sensation of wind. Understood. Thoughts. The knowing. The blowing. Grown into ice. The dawn of advice. Assumption the cup of tea. Ignoring me. Blessed reckless youth. Beautiful soul. Knowing. Little did they know. As innocent as art. Adorable creature. Admire lizards you. Consuming is a waste of time. Assumption of another kind. Kindness a virtue. Within this immortality a vast natural realization. Watching. Introducing the latter. Awake. Sudden privately assuming foretold distance. Knowing never done a hideous crime. Sharing words for dream-makers. This is a nature. Rating underestimated proud people: What is your disguise? Listening to rumours. Females hypnotized by irrational sentimentalism. Crying insane childhood. Do I need another nightmare? See the city roar. See the nation nearby greet imminent evildoers. Someone. Certain someone. Who are they?

Urban Hymn XX

Blue as sorrow. The ignorant awake. Watching seconds. Pure influence of money lending arrangers. There is a building. Moving proud on early morning feet. Beating sleep. Stopping for coffee. Measuring the crowd. Where are they all headed? Into the abyss of capitalist joy. The very instant morning. Rational thought. Left. Right. Left. Right. One of them stops licking windows. A speaker is what they need. No work today. No influence on society. No smiling at the secretary in red. Stop for a moment I’d want to tell her. Look at the happiness of absolute narcissist ignorance. Stupid hollow soul of reasonable doubt. Nature. Human nature. What is it all about? Then amidst an hysterical chaotic appearance; they all know where they are going. Wanting to be a personal guide. You go sit under a tree trying to understand heaven and the leaves fall. Ground. Pure innocent ground. Intricate soft shoes relying on dense ground. What have they found? Assist the long and poor climb up lazy stairs. Avoiding the smog. Having a chat with some lost tourists pointing in all directions. Thinking there are no arrows for you to know. The world is a city today and no one knows where it is. So in a relation to earth I assign beauty to this pavement by throwing a cigarette on the floor. Next to five minutes and I am broke. The sound of the city as astounding creatures hunt for light. Triggered sentimental cab driver arrogantly boasting curses at presumably mobile heads lost in traffic. That’s another way of knowing; no man’s land. The luxury of reason. Some veteran playing a flute in a medieval way. Wonder if he picked that up in the war. Rich people walk by not getting poorer. The filth they say. The beggars. The hobos. The fools. An artist climbs some ladder to mend a roof. Under ourselves we are slaves to progress. Grabbing a bite at some long since forgotten cafè. The waitress is an old woman. Old women are kind. Pancakes drowned in maple syrup. Then for a while a sense of ease. Strangely admitted to some personal nirvana. Relation. The schematics of a street after a meal is different. A part of some controlled entity. The streets speak to me. A day not knowing where to go is when you find the most. Rely on readiness as the instrument to success. Acknowledge instant regret. I could have been a suit. I could have known how to glitter with gold. That story is told. My eyes fold. Time to find a pub and a decent conversation.

Urban Hymn XXI

Seeking advice of emptiness. The relation someone knows about truth. In the idiomatic revenge scheme of an hopeless monk. So. Indeed. Happiness in a book; easy to turn pages. As immoral controlled sentences appear lonely. Eyes of systematic journey. Full of life. In a sense the stranger a word the more literal insomnia. Free and cruel. Amazed by freedom in every moment. Sipping leaf water. The instrument of advice. Reassured that emptiness in a void of supernatural thoughts only measured by instinct seem to gather apologies. Where is freedom bought? Where is teaching thought? Where is rational chambers full of endangered spirits. Thus never understood an ignorance of time itself. In the nation of habitually constructed mathematics applied to a supernatural life. Nothing as it seems. I say this. They think. You know that. They stop thinking. At the envoy of impaired situational control. Two people – one word. The suffix of the scenery a certain doubt in the nature of cause. Who gets out of the situation? Walked into a face of miserable guilt. Torn by its shadows I continued. Knowing this demonic latter feeling consumes all joy – assumes a mistaken identity for the superficial endorsement of words. Silence. Silent hollow sharpness of time as it bites. Reassurance. They know. We know. You are only as me when no need for talk. Speaking as if silence knew our names. Frames of hieroglyphic reasonably pure static moments within dreams. Assure the climbs of soul at night. God has shut his eyes. Mutually convicted friends gathered around flames. Set fire to a soul catching carnation. This is the dogma of reality. Strictly spoken numbers. Three now. Within consumption of the liaison sympathetic arranger. Dive into moral punctuation of freezing sensation. The wood knows me. Thirsty insinuated passing of cold wine. In a dream. Assumed identical thoughts. You know what I know. Appearing insults from the third which is a bystander. Sipping merely in instants. News today. Silent news. Reaching a hand stretching for coffee. Afraid of humanity. So insulted neighbours sacrifice of rationality this second seems liquid. The ice of superficial conversation mends into diamond clay. Call it a day. Dreaming of understanding. Time for a bite. An insulted newspaper reader ignores the attempt. Supposing a tribute to some kind of order though chaos is easier. All in the eye of the observer. Everything she knows.

Urban Hymn XXII

A mess. The filth enshrouds an apparent situation. As the darkness leaves with a wink of glorious reminders of what a good party is like. Embrace chaos. At this moment no-one seems to attend. If you tried concentrating you would be amused of certain lack of self-control. Mad nights. Mad people. Mad medicine. Out of time. Within this house. Where youthful arrogant lack of morality poisoned us with out consent. Sentenced to experience. A wonderful journey through the pits of underestimated confidence. We knew who we were. We know what we are. Paying fate no mind. Assuming every other way of life false. Consuming dreams. Knowing no envy as if wind kissing in a dream. Reaching for a testimony of concurrent absolute freedom. Imminent love. Empty bottles of beer and a stench of tobacco. Why are touching a dream so close to nightmare? Why is talking to the dark so much of proud advice. Human nature haunts dreamers. Would this pride and glorious destruction of respectability almost resemble information from another world? Little did we know what was to come. Little do I want to know of what was. Certainly. Indeed. Partly. Another question. Is evitable distorting control a lack of faith? The lonely path. The road to misery. The room cold as ice biting the remains of purity. Assume the winter dread far too cruel for a freezing bed. The streets lit by the demon fairy ready to couch innocent creatures in bad luck into bold supernatural tension. Freaks throwing words into a distance. Nobody listens. Consuming gentle dream tears in a for once quiet afternoon presumably capturing a moment. Speak up. Speak up dreary lost crowd of what used to be tomorrow. We saw it gone. Conformity won. There is no game.

Urban Hymn XXIII

On fortunate measuring of solitude in each sip. A personal bar. Seeking loneliness as advice for poverty. Wealthy people know what they do. I could stand for a glass tonight. The wimps become freaks after a couple and everything seem soaring in pure essence of bohemia. Asking a dreamer what he thinks of the weather today and it is winter. Informing bystanders in a totally chaotic beastly manner of witch one ends up addressing oneself in the emptiness of a pint. Freedom in a bottle. Creepy administered fool cries for distance. Talking without knowing what to say is a cushion of steam on soul-climbing naturalist intellect. Assuming the identity of demons. A bum. A hobo. A devil. Simply underestimating the power of an assumed immortal ingredient. Of time. As speaking. Sustaining the imminent pride. Constant regrets in the nature of foul words excluded in indecent conversations held on street corners. I’m a preacher in the veil of night. Ignore the innocent. Relativity. The next beer on me. Setting. Poorly found. A sentimentalist in a pub is as a genuine believer in church knowing where home is. No fake feelings tonight. No supposed consequence in doubting the nature of spirits digging through the rational surface of logics. Assets. The human mind is on fire. Soul fire. Embedded foggy dune. Segments of liquid soul. Sort the abstinence of winning courage. Know how to dance through the emptiness of void darkness. Loosing windy aggression into laughing distance from truth. Nature’s a cry of wind soup. Then the morning dry.

Urban Hymn XXIV

In the light of darkness a cruel appetite for life. Astounding amazed sentimental journey on two feet. An easy walk around corners some would say. Found habitually insane interactions with pure moralist mercenaries. Sublime. Profound. This nature for that. The adversary; there is none. Rumours about nothing in the air and plenty of subtle ignorant concern to neighbours not really bothering all that much about what is going on. I put an ear on the street. Consumers. Relations. A wish. Rich people aren’t themselves anymore. Not that I ever met one. Ignoring intricate details of life. Begging for a better conversation. Put your finger on the matter at hand. Realigning the spirit of youth. When nobody tells you what you are, you just know and that is enough. Thinking. Opposed the natural notion what is good for you. Then. Amidst fortune tellers to upset for answering questions I found nature left alone. Growing immensely amongst demonic seeking for advice. Truth is found. Fond of creature’s lack of consolidation for established opinions. I am the beast this night. Let alone. Poor is the spirit light in the eyes of youth. See the fairies roar an element of fabulous sensation. Described. Under the banner of courageous rational loss. Talking to strangers again. Up on the mountains bright glimmering touch of starlight wear the identity of splendour. Assume mistaken tribute in gold talk. The wind walk. Ignoring the suit of falling shadows. At the moment - for the moment. Within an immortal fractured dream of freedom where aspiring facts of life appearing, next as nightmare. Easy feet. Leading me towards tomorrow. The laziness and found good faith. In a distance. On the weary eyes of tormented escapists doctrine on how to live without dreams, the privately assuming, there is an illness for everything. Destined. A laugh from a seemingly preferred group of like minded gathered in chaos nobody can control. It is past midnight. A door. Awake amongst fellows. Cultural waste. Misfits. Outcast. Starving in the light of a tormented beast. Feasting on remains of what pleased. Conceptually not there. Figuring what the talk is about. Evidently nothing important. Dense critics of establishment mended heavily with the iron will. Fire tongue. There is sorrow in these dreams. Confused by myths and legends of preceding heroes. The encounter of mind. Never knowing the absolute. As far as gone; these days never come back and the ghost of yesterdays simply remain inside to remind me of what I am: A man.

Urban Hymn XXV

Privately assuming the dread of darkness, the innocence of youth and a rational investigation of truth. An element of time. In time. At the portion of rational logics. Emptiness. Felt the reassuring of a guiding voice. “Take me in. Take me in. Don’t let the wimps win.” Usual easily understanding. In particular. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing. In a sense we all know the same and this essential perception is as basic as the element of time. Knowing is enough. Appearing ready for a scene. Then escape. The world is a city. In a room which isn’t new to me I am assured nothing is going to happen to us. The kindness of someone. Portraying insanity without words this time. Falling asleep amidst beauty. And soul carry. Grown. Lamented the holy pursuit of leaving. This today. That tomorrow. Thus sorrow. Not knowing where to begin if there was an end. Sleeping arrogantly tucked in by the gentleness of ignorance. See this. Saw that. This flat is sometimes paradise. The coven of richness in pure spiritual guidance. Dancing with feathers. To an extent no more than a suggestion. What to believe? Who thinks about existence lifting a finger to point out death? Remind beauty I can’t find her. Venture into lost conveyance of filthiness to alone to portray myself. Mystic advice. Chose a welcomed guise. The snow on the empty streets blessed and pure as nature. Walking up a beaten track. Remember a dream tonight. Some things couldn’t be said. Credibly positioning a place for the lonely in a bitter sentimental journey. Who needs advice about life if living isn’t allowed. Accordingly preferring relativity. Happiness in the back seat of this venture. Released the void in dark preventing a total chaotic destructive conversation. Another word. Snowflakes.

Urban Hymn XXVI

Sense the rhythm of the city. Feel the immeasurable drive. Feast on concepts of freedom. Learn to admire law. Crave innocence. As information soars. Down the roads. Further into the night. Regrets. Asking a beggar what he thinks about money. Walking around a block giving all my change to poor people, which their kids use to buy candy. A familiar face. The sound of a beating hart. Finding friends without really looking for them. Friendly accusations about not being good enough to find a decent job. Life in a ditch on the other side of the world. Assuming the identity of some saviour. A fractured jet set mind by the river, over the bridge into the big city. Eating great meals at restaurants, not really knowing what to order. Meat. Pancakes. Coffee. What a fancy dress on that waitress. A cup of coffee in a chilly December morning in a park. Once the sensation - now folly. The way she is looking for the dark. Privately estimating. What to do before supper. A nervous tick on the left eye. The chilly sound of distant traffic and a pleasant wind through the leaves. Giving the birds some crumbs. Knowing life is real cause my feet is on the ground. Teased by laughter. Solid trees. Who would figure; this is a place of ease and peace of mind. Gently smoking a cigarette down by the pond thinking. This dreamlike taste of paradise. Not knowing about the dread of realistic estimated life. Where are you now? Remember the times. Precious times. Do what you want with it cause it’s yours.

Urban Hymn XXVII

Circle. The invisible dreams. Filthy with bad habits. Where innocence has a touch of regret. It is the element of youth. Habitually young endeavoured caring. People assuming identities in the darkest of nights. Try to ensure the simplicity of it all. Easy. Lanes, corner shops and portraits of midnights without sleep. Where amongst the essence of night is a lit lamp and the shades. Tempted. Paying attention to some neighbourhood woman leaning at the door. Cruel sentimental journey through windy nights full of rain. Construction yard. Pure eye candy. No words this night. Still a rumour around town someone’s getting what seems to be going on. Without a purpose. In sight. Giving her a light. Wanting to talk to her. The slim situations now only faint memories. Crossing a road - long since left the building. Forgetting. A reminding of the accusation in the spirit of streets. Sometimes gone in a chase of a dream. Caught by old people’s contemptuous doubt of the young’s sincerity . That’s life. We could just get along. Purified in redemption. The good people of the night. Where is the beauty that left me behind singing songs to the mirror. The face not recognized. A ghost in the mirror. Incredible cognition of one common manufactured instruction. Know me for what I am. The pathetic joy. A scream to the mirror. As if attending. The wicked strength of this memory. Found moral remedy. Another cigarette. The blizzard storm of love in those eyes. Outside. Then they leave left standing. Seems different without the pleasure of company. Infinite blue. Pardon the moon for shining. Blessed black of night. Functional. A purpose. The curse of tomorrow. Freaking out Saturday evening concerned about mistakes never made. Going shopping. Knowing. Breathing. Heart beats. There is a question. There another word. There a simple purpose. There one more song. On the beauty of relent. Casual cool wind, flowers and pocket money. Bright eyed soldiers taught well. Contribution of the public good. The rational sense of life at the extent of memories. Settling at the pub for a pint of stout. A look.

ThiefDread - Introspective futurist or Insane poet -

søndag 16. mars 2008