Holy the greying petrol sea
Holy the relocated graveyards and young histories
Holy drinking and friday nights and broken windows and
unwelcomed gate crashers
Holy bottles and holy foot paths
holy keyboards and holy windows.
Every thought is holy, every moment is holy
all the dilating eyeballs and celebrations of this world,
and the distorted clocks and children’s minds
who think faster and forget their age and time.
Holy books and writing, holy reading.
Holy milk cartons and train lines
holy lonley ramblings and fogged over ears.
Hedonism’s holy visions of the extactic and irrelivant journeys of time.
Especially all, is this holy.
Masochism’s holy in it’s raw of broken noise for all is pain of truth.
Everywhere, is this holy.
Holy chimneys and holy toothpaste.
Every action and every moment of expression,
an orgasm of existance.
Holy women and holy cinemas
holy children and holy sand and beaches
holy men and radios
Holy broken dogs and broken chair legs
holy wood from trees and
holy books and speakers
holy sound and touch.
Holy winded moments and dead concrete realisations,
holy quiet moments and holy rejection.
Holy lies and fires, and posters and wankers
holy adults with no directions.
Holy be the aimless
and the drunken.
Holy be the driven and
Holy be the middleclass,
the self approving,
And the wounded.
Holy are all ages, and
holy are all perspectives.
Holy in their existance
and holy in their attitidues.
Holy is all in essence.