As we gather ‘round the campfire beyond the tattered circus tent,
our bodies sway crystals ‘round flickering flames.
Carried away by wind/vacillating dreams we carry on tips of tongues.
While eager blue moons drench the swirling smoke & drape
living thoughts, suffocating with intense blues & intense light
the illusion of flight..
As we continue to sway, we leave behind
dreams of eternal life,
we give up on the endless madness that grieved us so.
Mirrored, our movements in the fires that we burn.
Even the flames shriek in agony
when our souls ignite.

We have gathered the sun-light on
cornered rooms with views
of pacific sun-lit erotica.

Stroked the corners raw, wearing thin
the after-glow of sun.

Visions of something that fails to be
described by an amateur thinker.
It descends through spirals of
recognition. Meeting elephants
on the way. Fleeting thoughts
of feline minded beings.
“Ohlookitmoves”
This thing will cross from the list
of things that it isn’t. But it is
highly unlikely it can find out
what it is.
Poor something, if only this soul
were to contemplate you a bit
more carefully. Until then you
remain an abstract in the
space around my eyes.

When alone think of thrashing blues.
Let the ink seep through your veins.
Taste the flesh, praise the fragile meat.

Wait, as the shadows creep up to bed.
Treat them to blood curling screams.
Rewarding echoes will be carried off.

Trust in me, trust in me.
Pry around rusty edges, to find.
O please, find the word to set you ablaze.

sights predict the flood
when socks stay on
and feet come off the floor
the searchlight falls upon
ringed fingers, but it
only seems to linger

likely light fallen
often blinds men
who feel ignored through
lack of sensory experience

molotov kids riding riots turned victims turned villainous by act of magic so much like pulling a rabbit out of a megaphone in order to show possibilities there is no such thing as impossible

Let’s revolutionize the ethereal butchered up remaining bits of intergalactic attack.
Gazelles!
Zebras!
Both victims to the same tyrant.

Incessant and volatile death,
those who never were
didactic masters for themselves
turn to speak;
no words remain.

Be my spider, baby.
Let me eat you up.

Roll your legs in refined sugar,
and your pigment-cup ocelli in love.

famished lychee
bent on treason

almost unknowingly furious/
dragging feet
all the way

to gather the fairest feathers,
now lumped under dreary
epitaphs.

we **** with the arrow pointing down
at the fallen, we strike without mercy.

we stretch looking at the compass,
no idea where else
to look for meaning,
because the pages have
caught fire, spontaneously,
leaving the world
without words to follow.

we **** with the arrow pointing down,
lost in the aim of the compass.

Arcane;
red morte…
a
dear
incident
looming;
laconic
odyssey.

Surely you’ve realized,
Chopin is more than
a late night run
through dark alleys.

It becomes a compromise
to wake up
every single morning
of your life
with a spring.

Relatively speaking,
flowers blooming on
your knitted socks,
and the frenzied
mating of bluebirds.

Regardless of dark
blood-drenched thoughts
traversing the room
it shall feel like
a sun lives there.

Sure there is always
Marche Funebre
but nobody
will notice
a dead body
in such magnificent
weather.

Your spirals chase me
into less than lives
on mercury highs & endless
plutonian dreams.

Regardless, a
lack of purpose
in shapely spirals
that tend toward
irrelevance,
is best explained by a
less than negative gravity,
that pulls every single
strand of my heart
into your constantly
expanding orbit.

Oh dear, be less than dark matter
& more radiant light.

They took out your insides
replaced them with cotton
sewed you up &
pinched your cheeks.

They sent out for wine
“spread honey on butter”;
now watch the ants
prance on the subjects.

it is very dread
when the chairs, chimeric,
sun an afternoon.

eclectic cats also
partake, but

as they sun;
their dread looks
upon the chairs

the siren rests
on top of this/
plump sphere

once leaped gleaming globules
thrice kept accountable & aye
left without a couplet.

Am I composed of
the fading light
of distant stars.
Swirling dragonfly
galaxies that
try so hard
to stay in motion
that for this feeling
of electric
milky energy, they
will forget they exist.
In cloud minded galaxies
life cannot be.
But here the plump
staggering ladies of the sky
will only dance when
they are full. Their
bellies exploding
from too many silver spoons.

giraffe paradise seems bleak on bright days
as neon fruit baskets dwell
beyond reach and

each leaf is the noose;
a repetitive pressure that gathers
around cervical vertebrae

it keeps delirious as
steel strings bind relative necks
to gates that don’t want to open

Absorbing root matter,
assenting dementia,
inspiring luckless lives
onward.

These words seems to travel at a constant.
Through neural space & time..
A loosely held dimension,
composed of thought and electric impulse.
Energy is continuity,
expedited through the nooks
triggering neural activity.
Pulsating particles travel swiftly
as supple skin meets lips.

Chemicals release and I am lost.

Roughly warping time and space,
ignoring tears in cosmic fabric.

Cohesive thought is vanished.

Not so obvious
to many
Orange soda and forgetfulness
correlate.
But we never know
what is affected

when either are missing.

love rows through
rivers of raw meat,
both banks laden
with gargantuan flies

Small traveler
of this green
scenery
How can I capture
your essence?
I know that you speak

of clouds and blue
skies.
But I wonder
of your
secrets.

Along the lines of time
we skip rope with the minutes;
no one watches.

A silence. Agony!
There is too much to be said
before the lights are gone
and the clocks deceive us.
From now on we sleep on rocks
and bathe in the suns.

Still the clocks are ticking.
Into lizard states of mind
we can hope to arrive,
as we rearrange these numbers
that lie motionless on the wall.

What a strange fascination

she blinked at me
twice today

the crest of her dark hair
seemed a gloomy ship
in the maelstrom,
consumed halfway
to the mast

…at the end of it all,
dragging lines
slow as gastropods,

every step
counts for two.

time encounters
large enough rifts
to swallow the whale

and seconds return
like ghosts.

living underground is
a drag, pulling levers
for knitting
gray sweaters
for the workers
that pull levers

it is a constant struggle,
running trains to their edges and
withholding movement from cartographers/
whose only true love is
finding out

this movement;
nomadic sponsored dream
that denies being a symbol, or
having ever given up,
collapses on itself

pocketful of maps
but no stars, no compass

it is a viscous walk back and forth/
and as pacing substitutes
affirmative action, melting on the tracks
seems refreshing

glued to the seat by
mercurial dispositions,
forced conformist
with numb hands.

and in order;
to stop giving a ****
in order;
to put things in order.

through force from denial
we walk among death,
perusing theories taken
from whence time hath not
the slightest chance to have kept.

and left the living corpse
seated, inconvenienced,
fleeting within thoughts
to stay away.

lizards have been had/
lost in a rush;
palpitative mess
with feet
drenched in leaving,
kept in binding.

dark as sirens
muffled, once or twice

washed up on the shore
with peckish reptiles,
and escape was
an escape, to scurry
was reasonable

through the blue
and green fields of
demeanor

innovation seldom left
piles, mountains off the coast.

miniatures kept
appearing on the floor

under
sole pressure
a soft warmth pools
between fickle toes.

After riddling mad.
Austere dreams
indulge
long layered
overcoats.

There is a feeling of danger.
/at least, I feel it/
A danger to be left intact by time.

Of course my eyes
would change colors
over the years.
But my thoughts
will essentially remain
exactly the same.

there are no more
reasons or distractions
no understanding
or logical strings of words

all the excuses you gave
for brushing your teeth
ten times a day
become useless

let them see
the holes you’ve
carved into your soul

the mirror was always
cruel, as you counted
brush-strokes

Across rivers,
mountains.
After days
in love;
lost.

Overhaul.

the lack of compatibility between this and that
continues to mock consistent instances
where left is what is

as two is prime,
and visionary stances
rest on average thighs
after pivoting lead to no-where

Starry dandelion fish
Collapsible in lieu of catastrophes
Malleable like sand sculptures
& brittle as the thought of sun

Oh seraphim,
your sordid songs
& your smile moves mountains

playing hard to get.
hard to play meek
against the rest.
playing hard against
boats full of sea-faring men.
leaving trails of dead;
sea-faring men behind
(full of sea/full of faring)
the rest are playing dead.

articulated through white noise.
nullified; given any other chance,
opportune or otherwise.
a chance to decompose within
brick and mortals,
sin and cynics.

artifice curves dimensions
also, artifice.