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My eyes
long to bleed
the pigment nostalgia of
ink-blot images

this over-exposure
of apeture awareness
develops beyond the
thought-corridors of blackrooms

before absorbing your sepia solitude,
remember that filtered lenses
cannot distinguish the difference
between memories and mementos
i am a phonographic record
and you are the ears that hear me
i cant compare my music
to malignant mammographies
and the phantasmagoria of cash
or to hash-browns and flapjacks
or to a purple field drowning in wisteria
yes, i am hysterical too
like elderberry syrup and cough drops
popping like its hot
so we japa till we drop, it all
yes, everything
so give it a chance
see your face in the reflection
of a pool of moonlight
a **** bather
a fool at the equator
equates to nothing
so i undress my unctuousness
a congruent confluence
like blood on an apartment building wall
a pox in your cereal boxes
flu shots and mandatory vaccinations
without informed consent
we are experiencing a loss of the immaterial
if we pamper ourselves with distraction
we attract the repulsive side of thy will
It begins with the first breeze of morning across the sea shore
phonographic moments from early rising seagulls, arriving
at the edge of dawn, soaring into the blueness above
Initiating the steps to a beautiful day break the shore awakens,  
with a harmony of sounds, orchestrated to perfection by nature;
Footsteps in the sand
salted lips and hands
wet feet digging deep
while others are still asleep
Front view seat on the cool cool spot, there she sits and waits for him  
a wild chestnut horse with pony box hooves, running swift as the wind
She named him Red Beauty for the flecks of his eyes are rubies of light
in the slow rising sun.
He trots nigh away
but here she will stay
til' the sun burns inside
all the tears she has cried

It all starts with a dream, at the edge of the shore
with a girl and a horse racing right through the door
all the while the wind chimes, as the sea shells incline  
at the end of the day she goes home, just in time.

— The End —