…what visions before my eyes do materialize…whereas they are invoked by a small white pill I do believe….they shimmer and dance like candle flames at night…throwing shadows upon the walls…strange shadows…dancing shadows…shadows of the mind…shadows who pose no questions and make only judgments upon themselves…shadows of tomorrow that are shadows of today who were once the shadows of yesterday….a poem is born…..

and into the firmament
fumbling for visions
collapse under
disordered nerves
concentrate
need to modulate
a creative energy rush
that has been afforded  to me
by the pills just taken
a need to feed the void
to appeal to the dead verses
that are waiting
a manifestation of poetic absolutes
a need to startle oneself alive
extract thought processes
a frantic buzz of possibilities
overdosing and watching
multiplying mirrors
amazed at the images
of one starring back
a poetic geometry
detachable used
and abused
in a copulatorey rite
of aural distillation
of the poets rage
frequencies that fall
upon catatonic faces
of artistic alienation
brought about by
a dissonance of attunement
to the vibrations of the verses
these spoken words
these living entities
who are oblique, cut up, desiccated
by a savage failure to understand
the visualized stanzas
a failure to disarrange all the senses

the dead air shrieks
with a venomous lullaby
slams and reverberates
with salvaged impregnation’s
of speeding threads
a stimulus that empty’s
the insides of short lived
moments between reality
and imagination
provides for scattered
but orderly quatrains
that tremble with the sound
what is it? what is it?
it is the metallic blue guitar
the music of the band

walk on broken water
where there is a sweetness
of myopic moments
crunched in the palms
of your hands
organised and agonized
in secret loneliness
perhaps better to be gone
than remain here
a redundant conclusion
defined by a strange
relief of paragraphs
merciless in their pursuit
of an entitlement
to be heard
in aggressive palpitations
of resisted dematerialization
of sounds

in a dead street
a cat owl bleeds
its mind effused
with images
of music
and the songs
that would alter
pocket thought
it  hears the echo
of a buckled sculptor
a blue and chromed car
that loots its understanding
leaves it warped
while autonomous ideas
flow in prophetic vision
as it moves between
life and death
a volitional freedom

looking for a road
a beach road
with an awareness of
frozen vision
that appears shocked
that the world is
in ruins
a vision that interprets
disintegration
as an introduction
to temporal vestige
as the road to
another dimension
a beach road
that leaves one
drowning, drowning
in ones own breath

i’m gonna watch you bleed
got a trocadero in my mind
black blood, green blood
from your synthetic rage
spills out on the carpet
turns into France and Spain
impoverished beauty relocated
i’m gonna watch you bleed
in the Place du Trocadero, Paris
bleed Trocadero tears