Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The desire to describe a day;
Over these words, I wince and fret.

A clock chimes it's infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.

Day of leisure, a life well set,
A wish the clock would slow or stay;
This loss of light, I'll soon regret.

The moments quickly slip away
Into the twilights dying splay.

Time spent fishing, from age be let,
And hope that many swim this bay;
Hours levied, against chance I'll bet.

The suns grand retreat seems to say
My stellar prize has gone astray.

Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The sadness of a wasted day;
Over words, still I wince and fret.

As clocks chime their infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.

...Too many fires have gone
wasted
over streams
of senseless thoughts
Imaginations
suppressed
in the name of social sanity
Surrealism it seems
not an endless thought
anymore
So I struggle to
write something
that does not
conform the norms
not to be
"different"
but to prove that the sun
is not inside a
box...

The last match didn't light at the first strike. Though he's grateful it didn't break, he was somehow impatient as he stood at the brink of what seemed to be the edge of his breath. It must be the wind...

...Fallen angels
can never fly
when they choose
to fall
Heavens do forgive
but
do they forget?

...He saw the glimpse as if it was a moment of a dewdrop dreaming to be with a morning jasmine. The scent was beautiful but he could only hope to see it more clearly. His head had grown heavy...

...define a thunder
by the lightning
and see
the teardrops
leaving the cry
it gets lighter
in the end...

...The last traces of smoke had long gone. He wonders about the things they see when they reach the heavens. Maybe there are no answers. But then again, who knows? He had to let go...

...But
when it fades
before it can be felt, before
it turns into a meaning
then hope will
abandon
the sleeping
man...

What was that, on your lips, just before you licked them wet?
Floating on their tips and not quite swallowed yet
Quick, do reveal what you mean to conceal, your very first instinct
That one there, within your glare, just before you blinked
It passed I see. As you glanced away, it fleeted from your face
Though it left, I must confess, not without a trace
Now out without stutter; no ifs or buts, don’t mutter
Excuses in mediation. I’m tired, expired
Enough with such trepidation
Again then,
This time please do mean it
Don’t hide inside, leaving me to glean
Oh dear, I’ve have already seen it

The mushroom
The unfolding

instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing

but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice

(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)

far-out splendour

heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating
~~~

event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.
~~~

The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
Temples
The pages break like ash

I will not disturb
I will not go

Come, he says softly

an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir
~~~

I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow
~~~

Drugs are a bet w/ your mind
~~~

The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners
~~~

Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.

There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.

How close is this to a final cut?

I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.

If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.
~~~

1st wild thrush of fear

-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.
No.