Every time I go under the covers,
My eyes long to find you.
Is it just a euphoric essence, or am I really falling?
Oh! I’m so afraid of telling.
Some days I wake up with your bold eyes staring at me, when I hallucinate.
Some nights you’re just a sweet swimmer swimming in my ocean, when I hallucinate.
When nights are so long,
And I can barely sleep,
I rest upon your figure, when I hallucinate.
You have no name, no face, no game, no race
Only a someone whom I rely on
My chance to escape, a feeling of being loved.
Oh darling, Let’s meet there again,
When I hallucinate.

A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Summitous
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Neoqusqo

Deep under the water
A young girl sleeps.
Her body is attached to computers,
Her thoughts are not unique.
She sees a dream about
Unrealistic world
With demons, dragons and other
People with similar thoughts.
They don’t know it’s an illusion,
For them it’s a real world.
Those who control computers,
Want this to be so.

I fantasize about you
and that one night we spent

All I think about
is your body on top
of me

I fantasize about you
being deep inside me

Fatigued of hand prints woven in the breeze
Corporeal winds tactfully stealing away decay are best left to their myopic ruination
There's no taste in the world beyond dull green hedges

Grown weary of waking, sequestered themselves in dreamy twilight, eating from otherworldly trees, evidenced by the mirth newly formed in their once glazed eyes
Mirth, though a flimsy facade, masking an ineffable cruelty malignantly circling their hearts, invoking fleeting fancy that they know all too well will lead down, down into dark, is mirth nonetheless
Perhaps the sobering drunkenness through which dust soliloquy echoes, sonnets rising like smoke through crown candy, unfurls heightened sensations
Through tactile impressions; how they approach their apex of disenchantment
Unfurling their broken spirits
Where the fay pixies dance under burning sky, their flaking flesh rises like smoke, rejoining a procession of white evening fire
Quivering with their feeding, needles against withered bark against the fire behind, marring the space between hazy, ill defined borders
The satyrs acting droll prophets of ashen groves, places where the soul becomes re-imagined
Under pinprick enteral, a serpent on every branch, danger and recompense united in a cohesive, all pervasive, cyclical motion
And it comes at all hours, and all is golden, all is fire, and all rests on the vestiges of the restless, countless, formless faces freed of their dull, gray stone
Stone of the satyr's legs
Spat between their golden teeth, laughter bubbling below the skin
Burgeoning machinery under earth green cloak, lightning bereft of destruction tunneling through the shadow
As they take their places, with sordid mirth still warm within
Drought of the ageless, apparent calamity reflecting in the pools of reason
And still the dead air laughs

Let them dance the dance of death
In it's pure expression, the tension it creates is seldom contemplated in isolation

I still love you
But no candles burn for you here
Thoughts of you grow thin, as I compose the faces
They're all waxing and waning, in tandem with the tides
Silver flecked through tiny wings
Catching effervescent light
No quality of life
If life is to be sought, it'll only be rent
As it once was, so it will be
Again, and again, and again and again