they couldnt begin to comprehend.

I wake to the sound of helicopters again. Ive been sleeping more than usual; trapped in this in between state, not quite awake, yet not quite asleep. I stumble through my days in a haze of hash and dreams. Today i dream that im a man made of television signals sitting on the moon watching the earth and sun die. Tomorrow i dream my skin is blue and made of tiny pieces of faberge, constantly in a state of flux. Being shifts and moves with every emotion, displaying its anguish through skin like a shriveled leaf in the relentless dry light. Or its pulsating with life in its heart. Grinding and passing with an excitedness only matched by two lovers in the embrace of a blind passion. They are alive- the faberge that is. I do my best not to own my cube parts as they do not belong to me.I struggle to find an I. Awake i am numb. Feeling has lost all duality and there is left only "a" Feeling.

I wake up.

Stumbling, drunk on delta waves, animal kicks in. Life easy. **** first. In process of *******. White dog in bathroom with me. It run to window. It escape.

Lucidity returns........ and i am still in bed. Three figures are standing over me. I'm paralyzed and the only breath on the air is a fear that is unusually thick and warm. The mind is wrought with an animal anxiety yet a conscious mind remains- confused. Afraid; it rejects and i....

I wake up in a thick sweat. My breath is heavy and a dull paranoia remains from a night of heavy dreaming. As if moving through soup i push myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Im shivering and fear is licking my skin, yet i don't remember ever having any reason to be afraid. I bite my lip and the familiarity of pain reminds me that im in THE absolute. The bleakness of reality begins as my brain starts its daily chatter, soft, like birds in the early hours of morning.
Her majesty Sky holds a blanket of pink and oranges over her chin, nuzzling the ***** of the cosmos, begging for one more kiss from that fantastical night.

When I die,
please do not put me in a box.
Do not wrap me in fine silks and do not play me a song when they lower my rosewood coffin into a hole in the ground.
Please do not cry and tell stories of when I was alive.
Do not cry for me.
Cry for yourself if you must shed tears.
Cry because you know that its not that much longer till you join me.

Emote life and happiness and joy when I die, I beg of you.
I want to be spinning in your arms as you sing gaily, spinning my leftovers.
I want to go into the ground naked.
I want no makeup on my face or embalming fluid pumped through my **** or flowers stapled to my lapel.

All I want are two flowers pressed to each  temple.
I want every line, every sore, every hole I have earned to be seen and acknowledged.

Then let go.

I want the maggots to eat my heart and **** the shell into the dirt.
I want worms to crawl through the sockets of my eyes just like a starving child in some third world country that you have only paid any attention to when they make a brief 2 minute imprint on your subconsious as you are pondering the next brief pleasure to get you from now,
to then.



While I Live.



While I live, I want to live.
I want to be better than the bees and I want not to covet their ability to make honey, but understand it as something I COULD bee.
I want to create realms of gold and green where passion is the only thing put to the test.

i

thought

that

maybe

maybe this would take me there

but its hard to connect

when all there

"is"

is bare.

So how

do you

love

a smile that is

but isnt there?

Women with beard
she smile gaily at times,
proud of her eyes,
for unlike ladies mouth
they be weary of lies.
Women she sit
she twist the nest on her chin,
beautiful she is.

She hold her breast high
before she grow her staple,
a flick of her wrist
mend all her mens
willing and able.

She be greater now
she tell you,
though she be thought of
as fable.

Oh mother
of all the gifts you have given me,
nothing
yet
compares
to our appetite
for infinity.

Feel something i beg!
The camphor in my demeanor tastes sweeter than the salts spread over the eyes of hour dreamers.
Don't trifle, in menial,
spread fires for three,
Gimel whispers; promises me.
Crawl backwards through womb and bough.
Bow forward through the plasticity.