You used to say that every time I moved my body would align into something beautiful, just as the beads in a kaleidoscope.
You used to spend hours staring at me and I felt as if I could shine on and on for days.
I am not a kaleidoscope.
Or maybe I am, in which case you're the light, and now that you're gone,
so am I.

A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga  *




© Amitav (Radiance)

There is ambition, but no motivation
in the mind of "what could I be?"
conflicting thoughts flooding within
unraveling all the negativity
20/20 sight but blinding any vision
and every premature dream becomes only a bruised thought in the mind of a dreary dreamer
there is no way to go,
if you don't know where you're going
losing all hope, but refusing to give up
a walking contradiction
but they still see blurred colors
and enjoy the fog
so they'll keep walking blindly
side to side with their negative thoughts
and that's why they are my favorite
because I too, am one
a kaleidoscope dreamer-
I don't know where I'm going
but I'll know before I'm gone

I know this is what

I was born to do

Electronic, Classical

   Analog or digital

Do we understand their meaning?

        I find it pivotal

         WAKE UP KIDS

From this crazy mind-****!

We never have to grow up

Collide, collide, collide

Cause when we come together

We’ll blow up space in time

Cause I know my crazy mind

Rules this space in time

Science, binding energetic mesh

Orb of fervent, atoms, matter

Forever brings the universal commander

Kaleidoscope dreams too heavy to stop

What’s the **** argument

Let’s raise the frequencies

Then drop

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &