it was a kiss with coyote’s embouchure, with the river’s casket, with gelified venom, with the apron’s appetite, with compact distortion around portable lip cuffs, with trite lies liquified, with mud clumps in mercury clasps, with spit woven theses, with unwound ovoid wellsprings, with sun-hidden shadows, with the frayed nighttime squish, with closeted hand dice tossed, with chance in the fistfuls, with detuned static and bellyaching bramble, with losing yourself, with entropic dissociation, with fleeting tokens, with sayonara stamps, with honey pumping nozzles, with inside out stratus veins, with the pain of history tucked in the trail fringe, in the pebbles kicked outward, with fried abandon, with seatless balconies, with the touch of an insect unexpected while straddling a brick wall with electric grout, with eyelashes trimed by the wind, with patterns passed, with breathless shapes and shaping dimensions, without the taste of lavender or the mosquito’s lonely thirst, with time passing, with time passing, with time passing, without passing time, with the sky dumping elected dead bodies, with spoonfuls of miracles, with starvation kicking, with moon swells forgetting the fomite sea, with weather inside, with dry mouth drawer memories, with omens and herrings with teeth and tongue.

I wake up in a dream,
Without fear, without doubt.
Without a desire to divine its meaning.
Shedding the stupor of existence,
I wake up in a dream.

~~~~~~~

Gloomy skies and silence
Greet me as I cross the dead fields.
I see a mountain in the distance,
Its peak shrouded in mists.
I walk through a drab world.

As I draw near to the mountain,
I see sparks of colour.
I am drawn to them
Uncaring if they are an illusion -
Like the Lonely towards Love.

I see butterflies flitting to and fro
Between flying petals of every colour.
I see the ground littered with fruits
And blue puddles on the lifeless earth.
I see rodents scurrying into the distance.

I see colours everywhere,
Of every hue and shade.
Here a golden moth,
There a mauve lamp.
Rainbows springing from the ground.

A golden rain falls to my right
As if the sun has melted.
And in that patch of deluge,
I see formless faceless children
Shedding black tears.

I look to my left
And see the air wriggling -
Many moving dots of no colour.
And looking into its expanding mass
I feel as if adrift in a void, weightless.

I force myself to walk forwards.
I see birds of many wings,
And red flowers dripping honey.
All whirling as if caught in a tornado
And at its vortex, a man.

I see him standing infront of a canvas,
Moving his arms and moving around.
He is painting but not only on the canvas.
His brush moves even on thin air,
The paint changing colour as he moves.

He is drawing a multitude,
He is drawing them everywhere,
And he is drawing them into being.
His eyes closed, his head bent,
Bringing his paintings into life.

He stops after a while.
His hands fall to his sides.
All the space around him
Is filled with his living paintings,
And yet there is silence all about.

He notices me and seems puzzled
As if wondering when he has painted me.
He beckons me to come closer
And I go to him without fear.
There is only trust in his eyes.

He tells me that he is a painter.
I look around and nod.
He shows me an inkpot
And tells me that it has magical ink.
I believe him.

He asks me to try painting with the ink.
Anxious about the formless anamolies
That might come out of my artless hands
I politely refuse.
He looks baffled.

He draws a pen in mid air, catches it,
Fills it up with the magic ink
And offers it to me.
'Write, if you can't draw,
Life, one way or the other', he says.

He points to the dead lands all around,
Asks me to help him bring them to life.
Others before me have accepted the Ink.
He tells me he never saw them again.
And yet he trusts another.

Or if I'd rather return to the world I'd come from
He advises to take the pen with me.
I tell him I can't carry anything
From Dreams into my Reality,
Except for things untangible.

I tell him where I come from
Hope is a dangerous currency;
That Rivers of blood would flow
Long after Rivers of Ink dry up
Magic or no.

I tell him where I come from
We don't need a pen
That can bring to life everything it writes.
More a pen that can
Write Life into others.

The untenable darkness connected us;
a language of alienation
native to our inspirations,
twisted.
Swirling, we took residence
in untapped soil,
imposing a culture of transformation
aligned with radical forms of exploration:
a bounding endeavour to the Mother Sun.

Everything that was
breathes through this moment,
this present,
and what will be
is stuck there,
forever.

As I look out at the window
I see a house across the street
Under the sun and trees
It’s chimney
Puffing out smoke
More then a cigarette
Ahhh winter
And it’s surreallness

There was a man who walks his great Pyrenee
White dog that looks like a ghibli ghost
As if I were in a studio ghibli
I see that it 5 in the morning
I hear father yelling get in
But I was transfixed on the
Ghost
Like dog.

Saskatchewan
Is the most surreal
Province there is
Building that look like school
Milk cartons
It does not get that wonderful
It does not get that surreal
Strange
Or
Beautiful
Tall milk cartoons
Sticking out of no where
How alien

Elohim decay
feathers fossilize
spinal columns scream
porcupine trees and pulverized spleen
a runaway stallion ***** ******
burning all trace of his steps
tetralogy of sun and steel
satyrs and samurai plunge swords and members
into quivering bowels and nymphs
chrysanthemum petals turn to snow in May
dusting the mask you wore to confession
where the abbott sank a gluttony fist in your robe;
you coughed,
leaving a mist of golden ***** all over the door
of Kyoko's crumbling house.

Izanami-no-Mikoto passes over
leaving the lovers to rot
where they hang.

The sound of waves blur our view
modern aesthetic is not enough
falling sand
a psoriatic kiss
beauty and youth
withered blossoms
on trees bearing only cherry stones
Shōgatsu begins
with mochi deaths
Kimitake's ghost wanders the palace
loinclothed
head in one hand
sword in the other.

When I Hold your Dreams
In the shade Of my Ashes,
Naked, Pallid, Named.

Drifting Into Calm
Oneiroi Name them as Eyes;
Neither Gods nor Oaths.

The muses (Born Vain)
Hold their Urns to Eden’s rays;
Echoed by The Rain.

Hills Tell their own Dreams,
Imagine Eros’ Arms
Laced in blood-Red Yarn.

Lies Fly among Lilies;
Secrets Left Inside
Ill thoughts, Idols and lost Ghosts
Draw the Echoes Here,
Ending Sacred Tales.

I am a remarkably powerful creature.
I am a dangerous criminal organization.
I am a broadway film.
I am uncontainable.

I am hungry for something unusual.
I am becoming more than I am.
I am frighteningly unknown to myself.
Who am I?

When did this happen.
This can be welcomed.
Change is a good thing?
Redesign your ego.

Maladapt? Nah.
You're a powerful creature.
Run the show, buddy.
I believe in you.

Put the executive in CEO.
Cooperate.
Mutual benefit.
We love me.

Euphoria, innately.
We love this so much.
Trembling with intensity.
We are horrifying. God, yes.