i have come to believe in an astral rain
void of pain, sand-washed and bathed in chain;
from woodlands birthed.
empty hollow and arrow pierced navel
sever nurturing swallow bond,
still as kundalini pond - forgotten is this soul's bold pyre.
for distant fire closer now than e'er
regret older than thought which never,
alive in silence came - bolder taught and brighter.
my autodidact spirit lost;
some western breadth now more to east no cost
no woman nor man or beast in ahimsa feast.

Close in that I can feel you
but in membrane shroud
no seeing you;

In November beside English falls
at Christmas between coral walls
no seeing you.

The clock always shows 4:40.
Simple man rings out
High above thousands of
Twinkling lights; motorways scoring
Horizons.
Our time together is finite, the curtains drawn across fine grain wood -
Planks in three lengths -
The stage light sun extinguished.
Love to me is fame.
Placated rhythms atop vacant halls,
Four chambers capture
******* phosphorus desire:
Compassion and feeling passed
Unlocked and bleeding.
I was once told, 'thinking does not mean feeling,' - but how can a feeling be interpreted in the absence of thought?

Man wants the pistol fully loaded.
He wants the cool brushed steal,
the soft worn wood, the capacity for death.

Fearful of overcrowding - death loads a blank.  A ***** with no ammo.
No power over life or strength in death.
All this I needn't worry; I favour the knife.

Life pours icy smoke from chalice lips
Coloured with the flag of every nation.
Daren't a silver bangle fall tearfully to the pistol - barrel in mouth, I fear no evil.

I saw you, I heard you.
Today on a screen my future appeared all black, white, and grey.
Nothing at first but bubbles of contrast
swells of innards and technology.
But then I saw you.
Your bones a beautiful highlight,
Our blood; flutters of movement -
Head bowed the two of us saw through your mind.
And then I heard you.
Pounding spikes, white rhythm on black.
Tiny pump like a machine blinking -
My own heart beating faster.
Alive and real, your beat fills the room and echoes through blank pages and clean slates, into empty homes or ones not yet built, cries out in the night with warm comfort and soothing heat.
Now your likeness sits in my pocket
Until the day we meet.

I busted my ******* hand and it wasn't because we fought -
Only because I couldn't handle the manifestation of my paranoia.
Now it hurts when I wipe my *** or lift my dog, meniality becoming a master task.
A reflection of me that isn't me passes by with a strong stewed vegetable smell. My dark green sweatshirt rigged into the main grid of the city; its fibres and style backstreets and pulsing.
Not like I don't recollect who I am anymore after never knowing - visions of a man's head being crushed under train wheels giant and rusted foaming and screeching with primal rage, confettied brain matter explodes like a firework across blackened earth; children will investigate the remains with sticks.