I sell my soul
for a pre-made bed
I give myself whole
for a sleeping spot in your head

I give my blood
for sacrifical purposes
I crawl through mud
til I no longer feel the worthlessness

I shed my fears
and all my dark feathers too
I spill them like tears
They fall of my leafs like new day dew

I pull out all my flowers
and plant them close to you
they will grow and become towers
which can only hold things that are true

And as my demons come for my lungs and liver
my hive heart will send all my bees
so these towers never wither
and this love never leaves

She’s soft and scented in *****
Aromas of fine wine, upon her skin cruise
She holds her glass steady, then takes a sip
Eyes cast out to sea, under the waves her thoughts slip
As if everything around her, was but a blip
Some passerby wants to ask what’s she thinking
But seeing her so relaxed, instead asked what’s she drinking

someone rescue me from my own mentality
my worst nightmares have become a reality
     I'm losing my mind
     & I can't rewind
     I can't go back to: when things were fine
          /pleasepleaseplease/
               take me back in time

wake me from this h a l l u c i n a t i o n
tell me it's     only my imagination
                    
                    my thoughts, they're running wild
                              I feel just like a child

     but I can’t think straight
     there's no escape:
*take me back to a     ~ + * dreamlike state * + ~

She sees the waves ram against the crags, stretching outward and onward to the line that breaks the sky in half, and in doing so it meets the sea in a wholesome piece. The waves crash upon the sand and walking across it is a white horse taller than she; its black eyes capture her in a doe-eyed gaze, and as it approaches she is consumed by a strange fear and in terror she leaps into the sea and is swept away by the white currents that roll her along, throw her, jostle her, swallow her and eventually spit her out only to pound her once more, dragging her slowly, to where the white waves subside and the sky meets the sea.

She rises, from the sylvan horizon, like a brilliant entity,
Her skin gleams so that the sunlight hides in her complexion,
She settles lightly, with a gracious fragility,
She approaches me, intoxicating me with a new addiction.

The sun shakes, and the world stops, she starts approaching,
With soft steps, she colors life in her wake,
She embraces me, and then her lips start moving,
She playfully colors my ears with no mistake,

Our hands meet, we now bond like two raindrops under the sun,
A skin so soft, I revel in its deflection,
No pain and can advert us, as we melt into one,
As our bodies start wetting, they rash from the friction,

We’re kissing, evaporating sweat drops roll slowly down her cheeks,
We’re melting into tender delights, Am I what she seeks?

ouranos is pulling a thread
in and out of the pinhole stars
as earth slips it's orbit -
atlas dreams of endless oceans, waves
and his planet sleeps on driftwood,
careening quietly from its perch,
boundless in its fleeing fall
from tired shoulders and arms.
the planet sifts through stardust
and it's occupants rifle through reason,
fiddle with contrition.
what information was misread -
who's to blame for the falling sky?

time moves through amber and sap,
too slow to count with blinking digital numbers
or those in ardent analog.
why do the clocks' hands have icy fingers?
glaciers call the seconds years
and so "time" is no more -
the sun cannot thaw the hands
that push the past away
and pull the future to articulate itself.
the present is collateral to the two
in their eternal twirl through non-being.
the duet becomes a triad
and the triad: a singularity,
but it is not a violent transition -
no, it's edges are soft.
they are soft.
the mind calms at this softness.

"death wears the mantle of absurdity"

- and alight the cord
to see the inward lamp glow again
watch the room unroll
like eyelids opening,
let it fill the space.
the walls are bare and pale as bone
and the ceiling has been pried off,
like a cardboard box cut at the top,
and the sky: a mirror above it.
the light reaches towards the mirror
and there's no reflection -
the lamp has short arms,
clumsy fingers like a child
and cannot keep the sky
but for the stars reaching back
through pin-pricked holes.

the imagery whispers
quietly in neutrals,
bone white and starlight alike
speaking back and forth
on the folly of the universe outside
and how it only seems to exist for decay.
they do not laugh at the absurdity;
they feel as if they are the same,
living reflections of the stars' cycles -
life for the purpose of death,
death for the purpose of perpetuation -
and when their story ends
the inward lamp burns it's course to expiration,
but this is not the end.
you need to reach -

Aging


The lazy orange hammock *******

Drink down my thought into your skin,

of lazy orange hammock swinging.

lie down easy and look at the sky , the sun burning away the clouds which turn whispy and start thinning.

orange hammocks between great fragrant green pine trees as the autumn winds come in.

lazy orange hammock swinging as my mind centres on time travelling,

all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in.

all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in.

I want to wake up when I want
And then slowly get to my feet.
I want to have a breakfast
That is very much like a treat.
I want to dawdle over my coffee
And take lazy, leisurely stock.
And, I want to do all of this
Without waking to a clock.

For I hate that awful buzzing
That it takes to shake me awake.
I find the racket ruins dreams
And is too much for me to take.
I want to sit where late morning
Sends its sweet shine in on me
While I sup and sip and dine
Like a member of royalty.

Oh, I am not so snooty myself
That I don’t prepare this repast
With my own two clever hands
And at that, amazingly fast.
It’s almost like my hands want
To hide from my waking mind
That the meal I am having is not
Not the made by Ritz-Carlton kind.

I want to waken to cognizance
In a particularly decadent way.
I find it totally disgusting to
Rush madly into any given day.
I’d sit in smoking jacket and slippers
If I had such magazine attire.
And if it were chilly upon rising
I would magically manifest a fire.

Of course I don’t have a fireplace
To go right along with plain jammies
So instead of brocade robes and such
I very short of mystical whammies.
I can’t witch up this storybook stuff
Of class A, high-class pomposity.
But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wish
To have it all appear before me.