"Normality" does not imprison me

My life being not heavy enough

Is allowed to take flight

To float above the reasoned realm

Where revelations of the truth

Realized only by detachment devour my thought

Increase my errorless purpose

And so the stencils of oriental scribes

Like colourless shadows overpower my mind

Floating, floating high above

Adrift on an expanse of darkness

Presently that black ink

Raises its curtain before my very eyes

Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage

On which I am to set my drama

Where the phantoms of my imagination

Will enact their mysterious mysteries

A poetic alchemy

The earth shall embalm me

Trees will set root in my belly

And make sap of my blood

There will be vagrancy in my soul

Its embarkation on an erratic itinerary

Leaving behind a tainted and squalid reality

I shall mix with black and white silences

Those that migrate in the oppressed contradictions of dreams

It is here I shall succumb to violent wrenches of my imagination

It is here that I shall be beneath an impetuous but charming moon

Smiling

A wind blows like a wilderness of wolves

A vendetta, an apocalyptic vendetta

In its unpredictable, accidental quality

That swerves images of realization into tragedy

Neglecting all with swift intent upon a fallen fortress

In complected interests of caresses

Neither invited nor encouraged yet displayed

Displayed vividly with exclusive claim to that oppression

That howls by casting itself as a consequence of transgression

Upon a conventional expectation that claims a privileged sense

That persuades without an orator grotesquely amputated shapes

Extending extraordinary artifice as its priceless wealth

But who, yes who, has envy of so rich a nothing

What is it, Oh what is it that plagues my mind

Which rests its design in black melancholy

And perpetual lament

Producing desperate and unreasonable frustrations

And condemnations of grotesque obligations

Investing a relentless barbarism of lamentation

In that moment of the infinite pulse of inaccuracies

That raises from the grave of oblivion illicit ambitions

And by their presence embalms me with an ambiguous curse

That compels no rivalry or universal justification

What mists are these

That grow heavy in the palm

Making bruises weep

These mists that place themselves

By treaty or inheritance

With such ferocity

Embalm the soul with tears

Announcing their pleasure

To be resurrected

These mists that represent a tragedy

An imagination that beholds a bleeding

Yes, a bleeding from mine eyes

A conflagration of blood

That flares a collaboration of turmoils

With effortless deployment in the mind

Erratically as if impediment does not impose

Itself upon their mortal breach

An unresponsive pace that energizes

The tragedy of my great lament

What a sweet addiction overcomes me

An intoxication of cobwebbed lines

That cling to me pleading for recognition

Flesh that flops in fragile crime

That melts in sequence providing

Ashes that block my vision yet still my tears

It is a new beginning but I don’t know which one

I have surrendered to ungovernable impulses

That within my very existence invokes a great addiction

Oppresses noise and forms an intoxication of contradictions

They caress me with impetuous charms of dazzling vision

With vast silences that mitigate in sonorous symbolism

Exiled in my own reality, I see what I have never seen

Or only thought I saw I am now condemned

To see what has never been seen

A shimmering like the painting of a whisper