mourning doves for late afternoons
a lament for the golden hour
the end of adventures
a little girl comes in for dinner
tiptoes upstairs
strokes her mothers hair
leaves little blue flowers by her bed.

                       I let my hair go dark again-
                          just like yours, do you see?
                           I'm a woman now, I have your mouth.

forget-me-nots for noontime
where the little girl would lay
violet blue healing shroud
and disappear
un-pixelating a photograph in the sky
the portrait that made her father cry
it was a five year old aesthetic of death.

           I guess I never really knew you, did I?
            
music box hidden in the mystery of a closet
shades of midnight, shades of dust
a ballerina's slow pirouette
called into life after forgotten years
the haunt of Sleeping Beauty.

               I know you didn't mean to miss my birthday.
                   I begged you for a music box, you remember?
                      It's my most dear treasure on this earth.


mourning doves for missing you
forget-me-nots for remembering you
my music box will live for you

How strange that such wonderful things
should make me so sad.

Kaleidoscopic organisms
harvesting the synapses.
Pixelating the images
shattering facsimiles.

The disc has been wiped
black out
start over.

There was no warranty.

Lightning flashes,
only it’s not from the sky,
it’s from the hands
that break your fall,
the hands you use to crawl;
I saw them in your grip,
cellular migraines
surrounding me in the pit,
flashing out of control
like a industrial seizure on a roll,
standing perfectly still,
row after mindless row
like a haven of brain-sizzled zombies
recording priceless moments
to enjoy at a later time,
contaminated by a screen
pixelating a musical dream,
and that’s exactly how I felt
in the center of the attraction,
cord after lyric after cord
ruined by modern distraction,
and despite the following talent
being the pretty reckless,
it was still pretty obvious
we’d remain being
the pretty restful.

As it sit, here on peninsulas
extensions into oceans,
tides that drag, pixelating
parameters opening
to peering places,

my eyes squint
at blurred horizons;
everywhere horizoning,
circumferencing me
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon
(you know, that pop cultured
coalescence of sensation)

And while I swim
through these streams and unconscious rivers,
on peninsulas (of dust)
placidly pouring  soft summer rain
onto concrete souls like treacle on crumpets,
it occurs to me that
we are just madness becoming
into something astonishing

Our souls are little embers glowing in the darkness of the universe,
Beyond and within where the atoms glide,
Pixelating space,
Like a painting by Seurat;
Your limbs are mine
Your edges undefined;
We are only energy bleeding into the entropy of time;
Little fires, our soul’s cinders, waiting
Like August flowers
For the sun to die.
And I will freeze from the outside, in.
My skin will slide into the earth
Preserved through the energy transferred;
In every cold death,
Birth.

My consciousness, so divided by entropy, will one day rest across the universe like dispersed dust;
My voice reborn in the ocean tides, falling from the sky in a sea bird’s call,
Or resounding through the jagged rocks
On the coast of Rossnowlagh.
And as with me,
So with us all.

I wonder, when you hear the cadence of my voice on the edges of the ocean’s squall,
Will your astral fingers like dancing flames trace the outlines of my face?
Through the entropy of space, will you recall?

Will you recall when we were two bodies, whole?

Covering a faceless tear session
Losing it all before my eyes
Mentality breaking
Physically erupting
I feel like imploding
But these gentle rain drops
Cease the fire in me
Before the pressure is built
It takes time to erase thick lines
But these clouds overhead threaten existence
Painted portraits pixelating
As the sky unveils
More tears I never cried

A dream, then god‘s interspersing jealous pleading indecipherable.

The  combinatorial explosion makes us into god-like humans,

when we grasp that simplicity is the greatest complexity,

the surges, the mastering urges, the blending melding gradations,

gods dream of our holy bodies encompassing, its said ingredients.


fly child!

the horizon line approaching, it’s either a goal or boundary, or both,

where endings blending make us immortal for a few minutes,

when the good Holy Ghost says, “me and we, ain’t no difference,”

hot fever, leads to raging calm, euphoria transition to believing,

where the god inroads, visibly interfere in invisible dreams, pixies pixelating fine granular,

dreaming my skin,  kin to prayering, my knees touching clouds,

lying on mounds of red soil, my eyes sewn shut and yet,

I see all perfectly, for the dream of god, is what we are...

~

7:15am
Jan. 31, the year of 2020 visionary

Someday, I won't remember this
Sitting in a bedroom
With only the Christmas lights on
On a half-baked winter solstice
In week old sweatpants
Faded hair and muscles sore
My vision blurring
Pixelating
Focused only on the screen
I won't remember this
No one will

The halo surrounding you converges to the centre of my heart;
Every cell vibrating;
Trying to unchoke my words;
At least for a greeting

An inch forward;
A lifetime's worth of courage;
But its a cloudless sky, your eyes;
The harmony of blue and white slowly vanishing;
But they reappear, pixelating;
With every step backwards.