black shadows spread
congregated  silhouettes
torn from their sleep
anguish etched on their faces
where nightmares have been dumped
create an avenging rage
of systematic hysteria
beyond all human bonds
become blind
to the anticipated
repressions of reality
entities whose powers
are not fully grasped
grey noise a menacing presence
anthracitic, their blackest tasks
so horrible
creating night in the middle of the day
mischievous  and malicious
they are no more
than an eternity away
where a box has no mother
black shapes beg
in their furtive
ballet once again
pure with night
sees the scene

i have found an inner reality

incorruptible, immutable

soon to be repossessed

words float on my breath

but this is where i hide them

in this inner reality

for many wish to confiscate them

but they are safe here

here in the desert of my inner exile

I am aware of nothing

That has brought me here

A boy, on the threshold

Of being

At the front door of a Dantian pit

I am on the inside of night

Where a racing heartbeat

Measures time by its frantic beat

A mirror appears

Providing a compulsion to stare

I gaze and realise

The impersonation is the real being

And I am the occupant of a mask

A cosmic persona

Of the true nature of identity

The same strangers in all respects

Twins of a harlequined society

I walk through an anemic street

Its galvanized paleness generating a ****** fever

Menstrual blood smears the walls the alleys

There is an expectancy of life and death

As a single occurrence

An experience of inseparability

It is a primitive animistic street

That propels dark gods to ****** frenzy

Who generate molten red drifts

Along the steerage of its passage

It is a street that has anticipated its journeys

Of a concentrated and indelible red

Of loud and terrible silence

That knots around white waists

Speaking in frantic crimson

It is a street of cycles

In a lavatory a pink transvestite

Applies ruby and rouge

To my cosmetic mask

Hoping for a wished encounter

A fiction overcomes us

Conveys us as strangers

Into an unknown territory

Leaves us there

The two of us, stranded

Our location inaccessible

As intuitive yet unpredictable

Thoughts cluster

In constellated

Images around

The rehearsed persona

Of myself

A timeless dimension

Unmitigated clarity

I focus on the page

And surrender to

The pointed direction

Of the transcription

Of my unconsciousness

There is writing

There is a wind

a wind that displaces me

from the limitations  of the present

it locates me in a century

i shall never live to see

a coloured wind

that overtakes me

lifts me out of this present

transports me into

the fragments of a fiction

it is a wind with violet eyes

it disperses me

into celebrated elements

a wind that cradles me

listens to me

a wind that stops me

in mid-sentence

makes me fumble

over the cohesion of my words

it is a wind that

drapes the mirrors

causes voluminous

approbation of thought

across purple, blue and red lit canals

a wind that is

the potency of a swallowed aphrodisiac

blowing through my veins

a wind of implacable silence

that causes me to hear

the tireless serration of

my mind expiring

on the last moonlit beach