Phantasmagoria, I was preached, is sin:
To clutch to dreamlings is ill-will;
To ponder about freedom is misanthropy,
But to succumb fosters good- will

An iota of irenic coexistence, fugitive,
Washes away rebellious thoughts? No!
Men, remains of flesh, tricked, eros,
Follow their desires, where the go?

‘Son,  to this earth belong we, transient
Creatures are we; have to dwell on ‘their’
Wishes, weak, weary, a love-in, common-
Touch; ‘they’ have teeth and scare.’

Worm’s eye view, attainder, yield,
Stop! Cul-de-sac! Walls! Apartheid Walls!
High! Not enough to thwart efforts to
Seek freedom, e’en via blood rainfalls.

in my dreams, i am a warrior
dueling with ghouls in my sleep
i fence with the demons and conquer the beasts
i am strong
i am fair
i'm complete

but waking up is a whole different story
my body seizes with fear
real life villains are harder to battle
and real life wounds much harder to feel
for there are demons and beasts in my own life
though they're not the ones in my closet
they're the ones in my soul screaming to get out
changing my feelings,making me doubt

they exist in the minds of the angry
and the men who teach our boys hate
they hide around corners and houses
taking kids far away from this place

then there are the ones in the dark
telling me i don't know my own heart
girls are nothing but playthings
their sick and demented dreamlings

so it's easier to stay safe asleep
cloaked in the warmth of my bed
because then i can be a warrior
even if it's all in my head

I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
and about
and around
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
-composing
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.
…

The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
a story
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.