the words lie about
small pieces of crystallized thought
communicating by sympathetic tangents
like the speech of the wind
attempting to mediate in white light
at the edge of an emaciated desert
their invading pressure threatening
to drive me out of consciousness
into a whisper
that darts along a tongue
the intimate recreation
of the speed and space of thought
energizing a concentrated existence
forcing me into uncompromising solitude

do I possess an inner reality
one of hallucinatory psychosis
and if so is it
incorruptible
immutable
does it float on my breath
confiscating my words
is it a projection of my self
like watching a movie
disconnected
yet caught on the edge
of a dematerialization
which reflects images that mob my head
causing me to think of rats
that slink out of drains at noon
and whispers in the mouth
like a static interference on my mind

defective, with every ancient deceit
a terbaulant calm within me rages
and I leap from a great hight
into a shallow abyss
where lurk the stains you cannot see
that creep in this petty place
where the speech of those who speak
lays open like a drawer of stained knives
and a stone terrain of thought
recollects the gestures made
where a confrontation with
a corresponding fictionalization
places one in an unquantifiable location

nor does the love of flesh
portray the enormity
of the ink that weeps upon my page
nor give sufficient life
to the words that cling to me
like orphaned children
in search of a family
such as pain of mind
that amplifies an unjust justification
that allows shadows to linger on my mind
that which allows the trickle of tears
to slowly wet my cheeks
a blue blair, dead, still
that adds to the temporal ruins
that violate my freedom

the music of old fashioned births
is no longer enough
and this thought becomes
a magical opera
where all promenade a century
entertaining memoires
that beg release
like an early summer
that is to late
we shall not retire to a wilderness
for we are a great and radiant sin
like exploding nebulas of the mind

I wish to see the mountains
but they disagree with me
the sea it cries
its tears unseen
there are coloured winds that sparkle
and flay a million reposotic waves
who on call
dilate to a lacerating urgency
of anarchic, elliptical rebirth
supported by nothing
again and again and again
I wish to see……………………

there is a call to the recollection
of impossible probabilities
so difficult, so difficult
my parchment weeps  
it has led me here
to choose complacent melancholy
in a private odyssey
that won’t leave me or come back
i shall go tomorrow
why?, will someone tell me
where have I been
must go to think it over
it is an invitation to a suicide
left unanswered
in a place where promises
linger in the air like floating sorrows
or perhaps the ****** of stubbed metal
in a medical basin
and yet the words come as they are
unclothed, naked, unsolicited in their guilt
cruel masters of silence
carriages that drive through the sky
survivors of journeys
through the inner space of my mind
their indented regularity
forming conclusive patterns
in a molten white furnace
they recall a purple day