If everything in the universe is simply a cardboard cutout reproduction of another, then perhaps everything does have an order. Not a predestined order, but one that falls into place as the paradigms shift and take their place at the bottom of meadow-less time. We receive reverse echoes of things yet to come not because they have already been decided but because time is a mythical concept. Everything that has happened in the past, present and the future actually exist and fade out of tangibility simultaneously. Therefore, we have the ability to detect the residual energy of things past before they fall into place within our present state of mind. When something feels “right” it is because the moment has been marred by man-kind’s archaic , linear, concept of time, and has already existed at a point upon a temporal sunstone. There is no such thing as prediction, only recollection of distant memory.

Raspings of the street’s lament.
Secretive,
commonplace,
hauntings.

Veiling the paths of floral regimes;
Assaulting itself upon a concrete temple.

Brief wisps of permanence
Floating past perception.
Coming to rest on ****** blossoms collected.

At the bottom of meadow-less time.

Naturalist bindings no longer
Only within hollow ties of
the wide- eyed, weaponized child.

Tearless wails for mystical voices.

Refracting
Piourettes of venus,
Dancing, upon a water- colour creator.

Gazing at home from the top of a sunbeam,
Failing to find mercy in a melting world.

1.
Let us take the world we see and construct
a relatively yellow alternative.
Apprehend ambiguous sunsets,
And sink into the pavement of the paper.

I cannot and will not be amazed. By
the glass, But become a fragment of it.
Be eaten by its watery presence.
A fragile door shutting upon a finger.

2.
Horror fails to ferment in silhouettes
Concealed by plasticine despair.

Etched upon the hands
Of detailed
Manipulations of light.

Devices driving devotion to
Fragmentation of
Scattering. Extracting
Photons of feeling.

The city screams its insolence,
At a street too small to house the
Dead eyes walking.

Remnants,
Of ambient echoes
Across a galaxy of glass.

3.
Urban spring falls upon the blanket of night.
Stability leaks from the stained glass city.

Deceased blossoms mark
A realm of unsettling perfection,

Just beyond the threshold
of an urban inferno.

Mechanical coaxation of
Rectangular prism lives within
The confines of light.

This is a false stone hell, it says.
As ancient facets of souls scatter

The waste of a low mass star.

Existing, creating, remaining

In constant correspondence with

Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of

Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.

Fractals of shattered ether,

Taught not
to touch an all,

Indescribably content with systematically

Despairing hairs,
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.

Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.

Mundane introductions to despairs,

Rapidly devouring
   The residual stillness.

Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for

Existing, creating, remaining.

Quasars are very bright galaxies with centers dominated by rapidly accreting black holes, existing somewhere near the beginning of time.*

It’s already dead in its brilliance. Fourteen billion measurements of meaninglessness. Illusionary existence, meant to quantify the moments in which man exists.
Yet compartmentalization is a mythical concept to galactic nuclei.
Remaining outside of quantification.
Not needing its suffocating extractions.

A void predating blood.

Before the beginning of intangible concepts.
Ruling the tangible world of man.

We have perceived a place apart from the temporal.

Now all we can do is make our drinks stronger,
inhale our herb slower.

In desperate attempt to un-see the
Calligraphic scratches on parchment.

Confirming the fact that we no longer exist.
The way that we did…
Before the sad ghosts of quasars scarred our skies.

When she runs out of hydrogen to burn, she evolves off of the main sequence, climbs the sub-giant branch, and becomes a red giant. Her helium core will continue contracting and eventually, ignite.*

Of humble beginnings: birthed in light.

The surface of the sun expands, cools down, turns red. Death of a low mass star. Above the wooden clouds. Whittled to form a sketch of a sky, screaming to be perceived.

Monuments to an era
With less fabrication,
And more speculation.

Four hundred exhalations between ten million years of innovation and instant incineration. Goddess of life itself. Betrayal. Though her temperament lacks spite.
And is Wrought with inevitability. Everything evolves.

Visual constants.
All that is exalted. Our stagnant star suffers, a main sequence departure. Reincarnates herself. A hydrogen Lazarus. Painting for us a portrait,

Of a humble ending: death by light.

...

fall
fall
breathe,
stop.
deny the existence of agony,
or rather purposefully ignore it.

do not transcend, your glimmering
ivy-covered existence.
sleep.
in a
world barred between urban stars.

scream,
scream.
allow the tips of the universe to
extend beyond the myth of static symbols.

return to the room where men ride bicycles
cyclically
picking flowers for food under the afternoon
starlight.

the ostrich tells you to shut your eyes
...