A body bulging and,
ripping seams,
a rash unconfinement,
suddenly set free,

A body metamorphisized,
with a soft croon,
the shell is abandoned,
the sacred formed soul is
awakened,

A body is a husk,
baking on the dirt road,
decaying in absolute silence,
the self trots along toward the
distance.

There is this fly in my house right now,
Daring flights of fancy   brave aerial acrobatics,
As if sent from reincarnation of a past pest,
Someone who turned into a fly,
And accosting me in my bed-sheeted existence,
The dreary light of early day pouring in the room,
Late night pondering turning to late afternoon,
Awakening, to what?
To the fly that made me lose my pen,
To the simple, all powerful,
The fly laughed, rubbing his hands on the door frame,
  mocking me,
  making me lose my place,
  on the depths of the reality,
  Flying across my mind,
I tried to smash the ******* with my volumes,
Barbarous and cruel dives of absolute madness,
Obnoxious in the face hand waves,
dive bombs on the room,
slow enough to see, quick enough to flee,
     "You only live one day, and this is how you spend it?"

Withdrawal your appeals to it all,
Differentiate your mind and become aware of it,
The buzzing of machinery,
A symphony in full bloomed cacophony,
The cold, dead, ugly noise,
To some is a Siren’s blessing,
Turn off the inhibition to see,
Wondrous gloom, bittersweet irony,
To taste such nauseous bliss,
As if returned to embryonic fortitude,
Feel it,
Holy demented feeling,
The brink of the end,
Brought right back to the womb,
Sick laughter in the corner,
Treasured by death’s lure,
Fell on wasted knees,
Crying beautiful whipped tears.

The insane passage of time,
Has led me to this point,
Surroundings are stereo vibes,
The mystic beats,
Created in the caves,
All come blaring out,
They trumpet and stampede,
All along with swinging clashes,
Like a medieval battle,
The eternal battle that,
instead of sustaining injury,
created something anew,
gasping littered dust of wreckage,
O how much it means,
the begotten, the wretched, the poor all mingle under one star,
Dancing and pouring drink after
drink,
Commoting the alleys of the sky,
Calamitous in their guise,
Bring joy and confusion in their
wake,
Splashing on the shore,
a delicate overlapping embrace,
The past aggression forgotten,
With charred remains,
The ocean succeeds the
deadly flame.

I don't even speak the same language,
Their's is an Enochian epitaph written,
in dark, deep mysterious Sanskrit walls,
awake and be birthed,
into the awaiting chants and arms outstretched,
In a stupor, self imposed,
stamped on this auspicious occasion,
the winds were upturned,
The city scope stretched,
A way I hadn't seen before,
The path led down,
Then collapsed seamlessly into itself,
Sitting in front of these chameleons
and Poseidon Pusifer himself,
two poles to impale,
people like me,
The self is likened to the world world,
The world is likened to the self,
Gravity made the man jump,
the landing broke his fall,
Each moment the breath is breathed,
for every reaction there is a hand,
in waiting,
ready to strike,
Calling out words that don't make no sense,
Feeling things that cease to exist,
they collide,
Splendid omnirealization,
the the world begets,
humanity.

There was an order, the hierarchy promised,
Advances made a transient path,
Clans of parasites threw up banners,
Announcing with great cries who they represented,
They held spirit above all else,
The will grew strong and arrogant,
They were lied to and sheparded,
Committing horrid atrocities in their name,
In the wake, they destroyed their homes,
By the end the host was left barren,
And the paramount parasite,
These pests that felt entitled to it all,
Became extinct to the body,
Given back to the host and rejected,
The spirit and will that was so prized,
Left a foul taste in the mouth,
It was too late to do something about it,
The host and parasite joined in gloom,
Sweet, beautiful remorse was all that was left.

It’d be effortless like the sun setting herself,
She’d just be, natural and luminescent,
Waves of cascading and flowing radiance,
Like the snow melted and she was left,
So warm and soft and human,
Making it hard to look and breathe,
Fascinatingly enticed like a moth to flame,
She would be chaos and destruction incarnate,
But no one would realize it,
Those little, gentle breezes,
Carnivalized into buckling winds,

One look and it’d all make sense,
Fireworks racing toward the skies ringing,
Glass shattering and making mosaics blossom,
Surges of invisible hands,
The feeling of living,
Close to death,

She’d be perfect,
So dastardly so,
That she couldn’t be real,
That’d just ruin it.

The race to create,
Toe to heel,
Blamed on the strangest of scapegoats.

The race to create,
Genetic disposition,
A tutorial of the soul.

The different three legged race,
Wanting to be a dog and howl,
Like so many maniacs have done before.

The race to create,
Becomes the race to destroy,
To conform while being interestingly malleable,

The race to create,
Ultimately is the chance to forget,
To sleep consciously through an unutterable awakening.

That race to create,
Binds us all,
Never felt so intrinsically absurd and profound,

So human it makes me want to puke honey

There once was an Eskimo!
Named Es-kee-mo-mo!
He was of Somolian Antartician,
Persuasion!
Just about this big,
Jaggedly he roamed about the country,
In search of some gravity.
Little did Es-kee-mo-mo know,
But what he looking for in fact,
Was his long lost sack.
He searched long and hard,
Along the tundriatic terrain,
But he never did quite find,
The bag ya dig?

They must have jumped out,
He hollered quite loud,
Enough to cause an avalanche,
Swept away in the wave,
Ol’ Es-kee-mo-mo couldn't believe,
That right up on top of the cliff,
Was his sack shining in the light.

With one breath pupil contact,
Sudden and terrifying,
You can never go back,
Now you're stuck in the mess,
With the rest of us,
Walking and breathing and existing,
Simple pleasures and scents encircle,
Gathering of scavengers,
We're all diving in head first.
Why beat the living horse when the dead one will do?
Did it occur to you that you're a blessed fool?
Something will one day put you out,
Will there be gratitude for the night's rolling tide?
Do humans find true beauty in death,
In the unknown infinite,
    The sublime terror,
   The honor and the curse,
   The rise and the fall.

The cornflower blue fields rolled to the edge of the town,
Held lavender and sapphire incense,
Absent produce just steaming scents,
Nestled in a vast valley,
Between pillars of countless smokestacks,
Churning out great sleepy coughs,
There was a place of milk and honey active consistency,
Where the lulled townsfolk dawdled,
The corners of their eyes and mouths thinned,
Within passing minutes and shifts,
From one scape to the next,
Predetermined and provincial,
As the sleepy smoke rose so did the passengers,
After a long and tired trip,
Leveled, gathered, proceeded on,
The machine's hum ringing in the air,

Slowly the air moved,
The townspeople gathered in their huts,
They barricaded themselves inside,
Imprisoned their own lives,
Content to be slow and easy-going,
They feared the one,
The One that they dare not acknowledge,
He strolled informally,
Chaotically, they say, he once lived in the fields,
The one greeted the sleepy folk,
But they didn't trust him,
Once he had been like them,
Until one day the One looked around and became hysterical,

No one know what to do with the one so they ignored him,
Day after day turned into year after year,
Soon the blue mist that rose from the fields turned navy,
It dyed the walls and the machines and even the people,
They became statues of alabaster,
Seeming to move now only slightly each day,
The one became a blur,
An invisible spinning, chanting, living, teraphim,
The one had lived a thousand years,
In a comparable minute to the townsfolk,
He only hoped that he could help,
But they couldn't see him,
Their slumped eyes had grown accustomed to the dream.

The times that we find ourselves alone physically,
Do we act ourselves or are all the eyes of the world
still peering down at us,
Is the moment that we don’t recall all the eyes,
Is that the moment we find out what insanity is?
The times that we find ourselves alone emotionally,
Do we truly believe we don’t have any attachments
to the feelings of others,
The moment that we aren’t swayed by the world woes,
Is that the moment we aren’t aware of joy?
The times that we find ourselves alone spiritually,
Do we trust that our own judgment and moral ethics,
Have been ripped from our souls,
Is that exact moment when we fail to be human,
Is that the time when we become our own god?

They found his head in the park this morning,
Samuel was decapitated like a king,
The trouble was that he was a fiend,
The best kind of **** you’ve ever seen,

The park where he played since his youth,
Wouldn’t have guessed it’s now his woodchip tomb,
It rolled off and plopped right there,
Everyone but the park rats were scared,

It was almost expected,
Not that surprising,
He lived off of stealing,
Must’ve ****** with the wrong guy,

When you look down the slide you can see,
The dent in the ground where Sammy’s head be,
Worlds collide and galaxies born,
At the same while,
Samuel’s head was torn,
From his body.

Bursting solar luminescence encircled,
A splendor that defies,
Both benign and devilish like a sultry storm,
Clouds that billow up,
Can't touch the flame that is your heart,
The core seeks and is lovelorn,
Seams are torn and passion felt,
I've thought of it for so long,
To think of something else would be mad,
Whenever I see the sun,
I think of you.

You wouldn't understand,
You aren't me.
It's hard to explain,
Even I don't know.

For once you came to me,
Instead of me seeking you,
Through the silhouette lining of night,
Gaining form from the shade,
Amidst living, make-shift caricatures,
Swelling and pulsing on impossibility,
Grand kinetics and beats,
Signals that rise and wane.

Watching strange scenes,
On a fabricated screen,
I did not know where I ended,
And the vision,
Existed.

From Tangiers, to Rome, to St. Bonifacius,
to the Alamo, to the great wide divide,
to the moon, to the stars, to the planets
make believe,
To the hearts of corrupt men,
to the mouths of babes,
to the sacrilege of Dodger stadium,
to the horn swallowed backings,
to the secret north,
to the abundant sand,
to the wild tranquil forest,
to the bars in lonesome towns,
to the sickly cries of organs,
to the carpets in the calls,
to the strumpets on the corner,
to the craters of the face,
to the markets and vultures.

Today I was born again,
To live in somebodies head,
I lived the way he would for a day,
But no more...
I'm out of spirit and I'm out of head,
Nothing short of a miracle,
I'm thankful for every breath I take,
Unlike the others,
I've died and come alive,
Encapsulated in the jar,
In that soulful sound,
Protruded in the absolute,
Thirst for knowledge.

An eye awoken in the dark,
It swayed and gazed out the window,
Answering it was time to leave,
A lumbering placid frame took off,
The day's ramblings already starting,
What would the next moment hold.

Beyond the great gloomy road,
Past the amethyst bleeding sky,
Time stood still as steel flashed by,
Mind thickened at the jolt,
May not have gotten to write this.

The company had told the
Little soldier where to go,
Jut down the street,
Not far at all...
Turned out to be an adventure,
All its own,
It took on its own breath,
its own face,
its own figure,
its own voice,
its own life!
You know those days when,
After it all transpires,
You look back,
And it's its own thing...

This entailed,
Most likely chronologically,
But with the arrival,
back to where I started,
Twas the same thought as,
The chariot approacheth,
O'er the Horizon,
In the deadlands,
On the line,
Lulling her to sleep,
Then along it came,
Not the vessel,
But the urn,
Of Being!
All dressed in hats; except one,
they wandered into,
the frequently adjacent pub,
They were striving,
Starving,
Well worth a sonder,
As I commented,
One responded curtly,
They all did in their own way,
But the Black-Fedora-ed,
Burgundy-Suited man,
Cigaro in hand,
Said he liked my backpack,
(It isn't even mine!)
The last bus approaches, The bus driver calls me back,
Wrong transfer,
I have a feeling,
That he was the most,
Diligent guy they had,
And that I was me,
And I mistook one thing,
That me being able to be there,
would be a first for him,
The john Wayne of Pain,
What's more painful than being,
The maniac bus driver,
Honked at almost every stop,
Some kids got on the wrong way,
Told 'em it was the other way,
Cantankerous old bebop behind the wheel,
Notches another disappointment,
In his leather sides.
As the bus made the,
bewildering turn to everyone else,
I was used to it,
Better for me,
Confusion rose like hot air,
But I thanked the mad,    mad
                                   mad,  mad,
                                       mad,
                                              MAD!
Driver of,
The crazed,
City Night,
I walked,
With my music playing,
crossed paths with the only,
homeless guy I ever see.
Thinking back I should've
Given him the pass,
To get somewhere,
actually I tried one time,
He told me he didn't like,
the bus,
On that nightly traveler,
He went Cold.

Something tells me to keep going,
Then I hear the residing harmony,
Something in this world is telling me,
The ring is connected no bearing,

The contorted steely skin that so condenses,
Form fitted it slowly sticks,
Little by little the columns collapse somewhere,
In the ruins where sand and fire rage,
It was something that caused great panic,
The pandemic of the soul,
Many where being lost and enveloped,
No longer could they think for themselves.

They had it all right in the morning, but by the late hours,
All had shrunken and the crater’s amassed, real pyres,
The traditional burial ground for the self destructed,
The name was called and no one looked up.

What was it that strikes,
Straight through until breaking,
That shiver you get with head,
Fully swimming in some abyss,
Waves break and chimes bubble,
The awaited crest finally sinks in,
Total annihilation.

Cheers to the things that keep you up nights,
Here's to the things that make you feel truly alive,
The fascinating occurrence when,
Life and thought exist harmoniously,
moments during the timeline,
The resulting disposition is perfect union,
A wonderful shiver of oscillation,
between the Sensor and the Scenery,
Melting into the one,
Losing even the identity,
Becoming Zero,
Spiraling and imploding into the self nullity,
Then suddenly,
In radiant rupture,
The zero is and always has been,
Infinite.

He took the series of images as a bad omen,
He whisked up the dust
From ache soaken boots,
From a long painful journey,
He crossed through the desperate world,
This world which is confused,
This world that feels the burning scent of chaos,
The world that has birthed the unknown,
The world where reluctance begins at birth,
The site of a cosmic reaction,
Far growing,
Yet we haven’t left the dark ages,
Where the horizon beats constantly,
And the tides roll in,
And the only ones we have to blame are ourselves,
We curse and spat,
In each other’s eyes,
We’ll poke and ****,
With itchy fingers,
Trying to unearth disaster,

What had become of the lost November?
Where are they?
Where have the people that understood gone to,
Where is the Bukowski voice heard,
In this day and age,
Where did the true humans go?
The spirits still chant and riot,
Glowing in there,
With a mistiful, sorrowful song,
That I will never get to know,
Different times,
Different filigrees surround different lives,
In these trying times.

These are the woods in which I grew up,
There stood a tree in the middle,
The branches swerved and galloped with the wind,
It seemed to talk sometimes and was helped with the air,
The breath of all earth,
Stretched far out to the mountains and oceans,
Cometh unto this forest and rustles the leaves,

I can climb it, but I choose to admire it from the stump,
Juxtaposed next to it,
There the bark seems to swirl,
The trunk breathes with every passing second,
As the leaves glisten and whistle in the light of this day,
From here the breathe comes easy,
In the woods where I grew up,

The words of the ancients whistled through the pores,
The spark was ignited,
There stood the sweet nectar,
There was the divine beauty,
The stillness and the natural swaying,
Of the cosmos.

The moral of the story is about the parameters that we asset to ourselves, what if it was dissolved? The ways we conduct ourselves is in a sense how the world around us functions. What we liken to ourselves, we liken to our environment. A person who is in a dangerous situation is brought there by dangerous behaviors begotten by themselves. The successful are beget by successful, the whimsical by the enchanted, the ferocious by the powerful and the harmless with the stale. There is room for eccentricities, but they only amount in the most absurd way into the protagonist’s predicament.’

Earthen desires,
these are diamonds,
that shield our veiled eyes,
trance like sheathed sward,
hidden in the mantle,
a top the mountain,
creatures lurk atop,
Deviled in the mist,
splattered in Lumios,
The crone and spit;
they really are a horrorshow,
Straggling around,
hovering,
hurtling toward,
**Unknown Territory!

Is that all we’re looking for?
The best times that we all can enjoy?
When we sit here and wonder why,
What to do next and not have an answer,
Then it all makes a crystal clear wave,
We had nothing better to do.

Sail away and traveling far,
Just like the escaping of reality,
The real and ambiguous world we live in,
Truly day to day,
Taking the good and the bad along with the divine.

Did it all make sense in the infinite,
That it didn’t really matter, the time you spent,
However magical and supreme it may  have seemed,
It didn’t really matter,
  In the grand scheme of things.

All alone again,
Can't wait to be all alone again,
Greatest range of views I've ever seen,
Here by myself,
Crazy,
Liberated,
Alone

The quake in my leg is gone,
I could feel it disintegrate,
It felt great,
The shaking stopped,
I knew it was time for,
Drastic,
Dramatic,
Measures

Ringing of bells,
The time has struck,
Itself in the face,
Light up the tree,
I'm finally free

No more "you" in the way,
Psyche is finally we... again,
Strangely I've felt this way before,
So glad to be back now,

I don't want you getting in the way.

I used to be worried,
That I wouldn't remember,
What I wanted to write down,
And of this and that,
And the Unknown,
But now I know the Unknown,
The place where it stops,
Where life's one big contradiction,
And evolution revolution doesn't exit,
The man with chainsaw arms,
I saw in my window as a kid,
Resembles the manifestation,
Of the Unknown,
It keeps going on though,
And life is one big . . .
The evolution is built in
And seldom shows incarnate.

Destined to never be satisfied, that is me,
I will swallow the world and purge,
Wiping my mouth of the spittle, off too comes the grin,
Momentous occasions amount to invisible entrapment,
They'll try and tell me that it should be enough,
Sedated and post-op lobotomies on pedestals,
Formaldehyde jars packed with vernal reward,
Plopped on sofas staring at the **** tube barrel,
Fancier and well built imports,
**** measuring contest gone wrong,
Debt built up and drowning rats,
Tunnel vision scoped Dharman,
Wicker trinkets, frail mistreated,
Lunatics that love for the wrong reasons,
Insanity epidemic gross over-exaggeration,
Billy clubs fly from hands of misguided lawmen,
Prayers knelt under the bus benches,
***** corroding the underbelly of the social glance,
Blind blues moutharp in the corner still playing,
Trains running on time, taking the life from the patrons,
Steel breathes burnt crimson,
Foggy cauldrons from medieval nightmares,
The haggard ***** dangles her ***** precariously above,
Just an inch or two in the wrong direction,
And all this meaningless mess might be forgotten,
Books burned, learned forgotten, buildings from the sand,
Starting the sick cycle over again,
With an even wider **** eating grin,
Chartreuse Cheshire cats with inviting eyes,
Taking the breath from the first borns,
Replacing motor oil with sugar canes,
HOWLING what history has shown,
Making a prophet from the scammers and thieves,
I can't believe that we don't all see,
What my path of professed malnutrition,
Gambled stimulus, Golden fleece lined nimbus,
Never enough for the scabbed *****,
Never enough for the howling idiots in the sun,
Never enough for the lunatics undistinguished,
Surely never enough for you and me.
Continuing on snickering underhanded,
Snide underbreath worried about repercussions if found out,
Maybe even too ignorantly blissful enough to not give a ****,
Head down looking at your shoes,
Or ready to inflict a flat tire,
Graceful or oafish,
Humble sniveling whelp, prodding pious peacock,
Dividing rod stuck in the teeth of our teeth,
This is the loner society,
At least tolerance is taught in our schools,
Has anyone really learned anything?

Coming out of the sleepy terrarium auditorium,
Whispering consciousness of rotten handfuls,
Then a great stranger, obelisk tall and stretching,
His hand and giving me a clue of what to do next,
A searing and scathing, loose triumphant look,
I almost tried to shield my eyes from its beauty,
Sound spilling out of the speakers in cacophony,
Climaxing and exhaling like a tired holy shaman,
Tranquil and pondering existence,
Wondering and re-examining what was the real reason,
Somehow it all seemed to melt away and each chattering,
Capsized example fell on the ears of catalysts,
Somehow the morning light had seamed through the curtain,
Training the new apprentices of next abreast,
Sitting in the waiting room panting and wailing,
When will it be their turn,
To change the minds of America,
While setting fire to the office building next door,
One of the commanders of chaos sat back in an easy chair smiling,
Further melting away layers I saw the,
Saints,
       And,
              Devils.

Renounce the worse,
Rejoice in the better.
Become Awake.
Accept your miserable self,
Than you'd be happy.
Become Human,
brittle fingers crawl.
Reclaim divinity!

The train's boxcars traveled in skullcap colours.
Tired and lonesome beats ascend to the platforms.
Reflect back on the worlds past, a deep breath... a sigh.
Regalings of thunderous poundings,
Lackluster imitators

I saw it all
and graced every moment,
There they all were,
Scattered across Gregorian isles,
The beauties beyond the bridge,
holding and caressing the sun-
drenched pavement,
Beset on all corners flesh of the-
purest sort,
The cackling ruffians in the parks,
conspicuous cigarettes barely holding
steady,
The yawn-screaming maintenance man,
in the back of the depot,
making faces at passersby.
The didwives walk swiftly,
buckling dirt under their scoured
limbs,
The fresh smell of the river,
with precarious logs that never
fall over,
The faces chisled in the walls,
Men whose catacombs belong,
Personally under the floor boards,
I met the modern day black-
smiths,
greased, and happy golden-red,
Behind, stuck in the surreal
rut,
Happily tailing and fireworking
as tickets fly in,
A walk home revealed all,
footsteps graced every patch,
Each one of comical saints,
tying invisible lines of
alternate reality.


"Excuse me,
I just wanted to say,
You look beautiful today."

Pay attention to,
the squids and monkeys and bugs,
They will rule one day,
Roaming forests, dark foliage,
Pierced only by sliver milked moon
The sun far set on ethereal ground,
The people soon rest in the shallow
Or sent abroad have dreams of leaving,
Timeless exposure to all magnets.
This makes no sense.

The true insanity is giving
worship.
To every blinking light and
exposure.
As an infinitesimal thing.

Inside the network of humanity,
There is a swell increasing,
Bubbling to the surface,
Clawing through sand and gravel,
and mud,
They are the sacred and pummeled hands,
riffling through the cosmos,
By and by making their thirst increase,
For dominance,
For sheer arrogance,
For all things wholesome,
For the coming of reason,
Dipped down by the ever restless,
Drawbacks that pinch their sides.

Then a time will emerge,
The face of the clock,
Shrouded in smoke, fog, and
mirror.
A specter of radiance,
draped in neither human
costume,
or of drawbacks; pinned wings,
Suckling a Dionysian Principle,
relishing the illicit,
and honoring the
perfect existential
burden,
Thus making assured this gift, this
upheaval,
Obsolete, dangerous,
misunderstood,
To the grand choir and,
velvet dungeons,
Slime pouring from an,
everlasting faucet,
His fate is surely carved into the
hieroglyphic walls,
in madness and panic,
swelled a deep tranquility,
The etchings formed poetry,
formed testament,
formed testimonial,
formed remedy in martyrdom,
Others were closed to strange intensities,
Others sat and smoked on their patios,
Watching the worlds collide,
Rattling the great fabric gong,
seizing with pleasure,
omniflourescent fireworks,
of absolute brilliance,
The twinkling dust falling,
flickering as
they fall,
Becoming imagined demons,
sacred omens,
reassurance that things,
derive from all things,

What had been said and done in the past, now is the wall keeping them from taking a look at the real veiled horizon that captivates the ethereal mystery of the child's wonder.

In them,
In the moment huh?
What does that mean,
Here you go,
  While being planned ahead,
A single glimpse on the horizon,
Made scorching hot out of lunacy,
The definition of loneliness incarnate,
Made real by the blooming horizon,
The feline’s tail disappears in the shadow,
  As you make your way towards it,
      Why not stay and let me hold you tight,
Glimpse of the light,
    The future seems so shaky,
Resting on a fulcrum point,
    There’s no way of measuring the intensity,
    In the downstrokes,
   Angrily this laden sadness,
Makeshift in moonlight desperation,
       Perfection never reached because,
       I splattered **** on the bowl,
    Then I turned around,
  Didn’t even see the tail,
     And started conversing lines that made no sense,
I just love the conditioned response,
     Keys chattering in the night
No one can hear but the wind and me,
     The desperation in my narrative,
What it will all amount to I cannot say,
Exceptionally dull in its futility,
          If only to impress the one I fell in love with,
   And stillll reminisce about to this moment,
                The artist’s daughter,
           Full of awkward sunshine and presumably
Already spoken for beauty,
      I was amazed to learn that,
Artists roamed this town camoflouged.

When an arm is held up high,
distinct from all the rest,
it might be victory or defeat,
triumph or loss,
the inevitable outcome is when
raised,
There exists, still, a connection
to the rest of the body.
As our mingled mangled forms
caress the day we're given,
With a raising of our appendage,
it would be all over,
call it quits.

The dark ink blots out the sky,
the stars aren't shining
because at the center of our fixture
rests an everlasting, whirring
mechanism,
it turns the key in out backs,
pushes us further,
tiptoe or *** rush or sprint,
the multitude of spirits echo,
an enchanting chorus,
tone unlike any other.

With their tails flashing,
A brilliant white light,
Followed behind,
And was lost inside itself.

Their white shadow,
the soft bellied burial,
the creamy innards of bliss,
the silky crystal sphere,
existing inside and outside itself.

The wind blows the sheet in
Whispered movements,
many wings fluttering on the face,
from my pavilion under the parasol,
smells of woody incense fumes,
The grey of the sky,
Such charisma floating around,
Lofty bounds over this crowd,
Still insanity reins,
Silvered veins holding golden steel,
Who tells you this is real?

There's a pandemic,
The denial of Self,
Not only of the surface self,
But also of what lies underneath.

In the depths,
Mystery,
On the forefront,
Chaos,
All the while the middle,
Spins concentrically.

Openly exposed to lands both,
Futile and Fertile,
On either side,
There slides,
Shimmering isles screeching,
water whirling.

Oh well, now's a good a time
as any,
Scribble incandescence,
lines with no thought,
as simple as a lie
as life.
The true facets of humanity
exist unfledged in between the
smoke and mirrors,
Created by the Unknown Ones,
disguised as the steel makeup
of this fair city.

Life's Dramaties, traumatizing moments,
Rally together with the inertia of time,
Just as the soul is expounded to its limits,
On the verge of reversing in,
Or gently tugged away/ violently combustion,

The maturity of a timeline,
as if entangled with the world around,
none are spared from eternal embrace,
cosmic or otherwise,
drawn into a twisting, churning,
vortex,
Tunnel...

Fanaticism is now a mental disorder,
If you don't accept all realities,
disciplines,
teachings,
you accept singular rationales,
To have a complete consciousness ,
within another accepting vessel,
is the artist's gift.
the nightmare shortly follows,
that it wasn't long enough to
remember.

An imagined being,
The mitigated reality,
Beset on all sides,
Makes you wither,
in comparison,
to the deception,
To enhance the enviournment aboutnd,
that fits upon themselves the wworld,
Under watch,
kept under lock and key,
the universal truths,
hidden under their *******,
the single timeless entity,
That turns the world over,
in onto itself,
keels into oblivion,
touching back to the abdominal,
fact that it retaliates,
fought behind reason,
Love behind common sense,
The world undone,
By the limitless one,
The being that lasts,
Something,
Beauty,
In repetition,
Found to be prevalent,
In excessive inquiry,
What's and Who's and Why's,
It means no difference,
When facts speak for themselves,
Examples are found in the outside,
Shuddering ample reflections
In the tide pool,
Spiraling.

You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****,
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.

The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.

I’m beside myself looking across the parallel,
Searching for the right thing to say I take another bite,
Behind these eyes marks a change staring back,
While slitting the fruit from the vine,
Screams of **** pain and anguish almost entice,
The nectar repelling down its face like sweat,
It knows complete serenity.

I’m at the house of my ancestors,
And still the riddles on the wall,
Have remained branded, stained,
Aside from the surrounding proximity,
I can relax just this once,
The calm before the nuclear bomb,
Or maybe just a tantrum,
A regression by fate’s whim,
Who it will be is anyone’s guess,
Considering my current state of affairs,
I’m an O so likely candidate,
For ******* of the millennia.

Borne under the good sign,
Or the bad,
If the enigma caught on,
to the trailing self,
it would be a question,
would the superlative,
be monstrous?
Or the make shift believer;
Would it all make sense?
Scribbles...
Either I have signed my life
or destroyed it,
In the pursuit.
It is the mental mind,
That produced this end,
The markings the etching,
That causes a chasm,
It will obliterate the skies!
Magnitude.
The sense of belittlement,
had been extinguished,
The tribes borne of the future,
would marvel at etchings,
Engraved in sand,
The beauty all extinguished,
Among the belittled beauty, at,
simple existence,
of complex life,
The hereditary displacement,
coherent to our establishment,

There is a latency
in progression,
The mixture's
Teeth,
Bind,
Conform
In singularity,
The future forgets itself,
the zen logic is missing,
between pustules,
between synapses,
between the heavy,
and the lucid.