.

you surely do not have ugly hats; sit and ponder the quavering void in your semi-casual Fedora
if it pleases You. but don’t be alarmed. Be a Cat.
i concede that you are wonderful. That’s got me thinking you have Saturns’ Rings for an Aura.
a fit of Believing. but don’t be naive. Be Opaque.
you walk like getting somewhere is a cage. you do this silently and you’re gorgeous for It.
the Journey is your Infinite Question. You have so many looms to inspire into weaving
but nothing but your heart to stain the Threads
of your flawless Haberdashery.

what is the future talking about? i can’t understand.
it’s like reading lips in a blindfold made of all
the wishes a genie would laugh at.
it’s like singing into a deaf noise
that only hears you when you
eat your feelings without Siracha
and call upon a thousand urges
to Undie.

what is the future talking about? I can’t tell.
I’m too busy marketing my ****** self to my **** Self.
I sleep with my eyes closed
but I open my petunias
with days upon days
of Allure.

toadstool scrimshaw
high ankled inlaws
harlequin anthems
and awkward Templars
acid battalions
of basic
disbelief.

on a sea of inconstant
allure.

sleep is a ******. it recoils when the moon and the night conspire.
it shuns slumber like a timebomb on a porch.
sleep ticks like a phantom with Tourettes...

we are not familiar.

in the wee hours, I am disconnected
from trivia. attached to the hull of a great force
surging through the aqueous chasms
of my insomnia.
like a butterfly the size of a classical harp
clapping in the dark
Almighty,

magic is a real thing… it has no bones but
all the moons in a nebulous symmetry.
we swim in things we can’t correct.
and yet, there lies the bloom of our -
Infinite Jest.

magic is a real thing… sleeping on the floor
with the cold sparkles and marsh marionettes
glowing in the farthest thing from practically Nothing.
Like a Boss.

we go where the real things **** us and return with fresh hells
to feather our nested resurrections in the face of a Comedy.
so magic is a real thing, sleeping with Strangers
an opulent soliloquy of unexpected
surrenders.

magic is a real thing… but the ***** of our Narcissus
daunts the pavillions of our introspection. our numerous harmonies.
so real we had habits.
And that is.

my imperial darkness is so bright
it knows how many lights
to take away.

how many moons to forge
in a black kiln on
an Autumn day.

how many thorns to invite
to a crown…

in a throne room
made of

no rooms.

and an Always.