Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's filth is another's wealth
or that the true pleasures comes from
a magnitude of abnormal achievements;
anticipation of gray shades on human error
is our life's constant coefficient.
Perception betrays with its blindspot:
Fate tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's sight;
intentions beats recognition as we commence
on thin sheens crawling to overtake that lens
where highlight captures pretense cleansing darkness.

So we could stand up, move on, darling, you and I,
until the glare tick out the rest in the worst
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic style, but leading hands that move
forcefully from adorable to done.
We raise our arguments like a diluted depict
heave to a better angle for screen clarity
shake logic with escape of comfort
and contradict ourselves for humor;then pixels leak
raw wind dries our stand and we put on
the heights as an oath; love is a tinted gloss
who insists her associates play in the rain.

Now you, my sophisticated fading icon,
would you have me carry the dry lands  
Or swallow the future and coat consequences
to store them on a cloud, down
the server in one language:
Drawing vowels from a loop through the dark
we only left with [L.P] played at 3:33 am
should it overwhelm the almost awake town.
cycling phoenix never stops to frame
If it should, should it be real or
should it sketch drunks upon the vignette
and Rands spent in dubious doorways
Our Valentine habits, engraved decoders
dining close to burning candles with our expired heads;
I donate applauds, until the same cause attacks again
scattering image from imagination,
recovering from ghost shots of exposure.

The rise leans down to hook; the resounding leak
in the dustbin sinks and drowns; we consume
divine west and east and sigh
how do you do,
and then how do you do again
to a blind breathing routine
till our harsh melodies reaches
to call for a cut on our restored scenes;
capturing photocopied reflections,
shutter opens where black or white begins
and separate the film from focus:
the philosophy of absolute apertures
exposed in a retina of moralities
which idealist call absolute, and rationalist, myth:
an insight like the prism of mirrors:

The result that mangle direct gaze is flipped,
while knowing the secret of their glaucoma is going;
some day, to move, and drop,
trace a wound that heals collections
only to reopen as flash thickens:
So we shall walk barefoot on chatroom walls
build our bed as high as a dead silhouette;
Duplicating the pain in our own tears:
Today : we start to pay the optic with each infrared,
yet love knows not of perception nor reality above
the simple sum of collages.