"saharan" poems
on a farflung corner of the world
beyond the frosty Urals,
past the Saharan desert yonder,
and the Himalayan walls of ice,
and then a little while longer,
there you’ll find me sleeping.
or if you would ride a comet
and streak through the Atlantic,
land on the East Coast,
and head west some more
’till you arrive at the Western shore,
find a seastar and befriend it.
Then traverse seven horizons
across the infinite Pacific,
there you’ll find me resting.
here beyond the furthest dream
beyond the faintest clouds
i stand on sandy seascapes.
away from all the broken people
with their broken frowns and towns.
this is a land of smiles and sunny skies
where darkness and death cannot harm
the relentless light in
the brown of everybody’s eyes.
on a little archipelago of pearls
suspended from the stars by strings
like a toddler’s mobile as it swings,
the heartbeats of London, Paris,
New York, LA, or Rome:
pictures in a fairytale book here at home.
I am very very far away
where all my life is an echo
sounding in tropical sunsets:
rosy and pink and sinking
like a reverseblooming rose
lighting up the Manila Skyline.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.
The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.
The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.
Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.
Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.
The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.
The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.
The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
grand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
giggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.
The Decider
decides.
Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone
Oakland
3/3/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
In the arid dust I can see a shimmer of you in the distance, the red of your hair mixing with the ochre earth
Amid the noise and collision of caravansary in Jemaa el-Fna I hear your soft drawl joking with Snake charmers, always in hustle
In souks the sweetness of fennel and myrrh swirl in the wake of travellers steps and I'm reminded of your desert scent, like cedar and musk covered dust
In the dissonance of the call to prayer I can feel your awe as struck as mine, while the roiling sound of voices lifted in faith erupt over the Medina
In the coolness of Jardin Majorelle, I can feel your head resting on my shoulder as I contemplate the reflection of Lotus blossoms in stark blue pools
I see your eyes in the green of the Atlas Mountains, echo your amazement at Saharan navigation, feel your peace as the stars appear over the Riad
But can't feel your hand in mine as the sun sets over Marrakech
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
a serpentine plume
of saharan dust
unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning
exhalation
of opaque
talcum haze
seeping into and onto
cracks metal glass
amid caustic
simmering
and listless
longing
for cicada drill
and aircondtioned din
to mute
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
I bought an interocitor and put it in my phone
Now I'm getting messages from galaxies unknown
Klaatu said Gort is broken down and waiting for some parts
From beyond the outer limits, not found on any charts
The Borg said they'll assimilate, 'tis futile to resist
The Thing said it would vegetate upon my groc'ry list
Teenagers from outer space we're in the Twilight Zone
The Blob said it could split in half to make itself a clone
The Robinsons still lost in space, forevermore to roam
Outer space invading soon, and ET phoning home
Arrakis said the planet Earth must meet the Guild's demands
Or Dune would send its giant worms to eat Saharan sands
For fear we'll be invaded and my body snatched away
And all the dreadful thoughts I've had, it's time for me to say
I've put my cosmic calls on hold because, for what it's worth,
I'm getting all the flack I need from good old planet Earth.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
A physically saturated pluviophile is a soul that craves to intertwine themselves with the very deepest parts of thee.
In the eyes and heart of a pluviophile,
the rain is sunshine on an otherwise grey and cloudy day.
Make no mistake;
I am a pure breed when it comes to being/representing a "pluviophile".
The rain elicits the very deepest part of me without one moment's struggle.
It's a cleansing.
It's an act of purification.
It's a new beginning.
A feeling of new skin
and afflictions
washed away.
A few still moments
to breathe in
the roses of
life.
If you can not
=connect= with a
"pluviophile"?
You're not
'all wet'
but rather,
as dry as the
saharan sand.
Come get
wet
with me...
in
the
p
u
r
p
l
e
rain """""""""""
'''''"""""""
"""""""""""""""
"""""""""""""""""""""
' ' ' ' ' '
' ' '
'
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 8:14 AM UTC
Like the way a speaker prepares his toast. Each yearning sensibility, their bold autumnal stamen cast lines into the horizon of our lives. That when we were younger we even thought, that aeroplanes would land just where we stood in front of our homes in our neighborhood. And if unfurled, as our oil riggers kept us off the benches so we must only had whispers of our doings. Then Harold Sev and Linda Wevven brought to us our cars, our toys, our wives...cooking and cleaning and children. This was not the narrow passage of peak four.
Because of this we have learned many wonderfully-suited professions of our tertiary friends: radio captain, Saharan Field Marshall, dairy operator at a dromedary farm.
Why in this short-timed, often-rainy parody of existence due countries set embargos upon one another so that two men who cannot afford even the drink they carry, so long as they handle the glass properly, and we concern ourselves with things as trivial as this.
You stay everyone! This America is stupendous.
Or then drink from my hands and say, "America Finding the Curious Even More Curiouser.'" Where with two plates two bowls, two forks, two spoons, two glasses, and thrice the knives of a charcuterie.
So with your bold hand baskets, and Model-Ts, go show us how you fffffffffffffffffffff
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
Oh, to sail upon the sea.
To brave that which so scares me,
To leave land and life behind,
To sever those ties that bind.
To experiance all those amazing places that I so want to SEE!
That will be something that will forever impact me.
But oh,
Can it happen?
I don't know!
I'm really sick in my body,
Even though I have never said,
It is true that at times I,
Who so loves life,
And beauty.
Have wished to be dead.
Sometimes it is hard to continue on,
But I CAN be strong.
Because I want to experiance those places,
To see,
The world,
The tropics,
Those places,
That make me hope and dream,
The sea and its steams,
There is so much to see!
Dear God,
My lord,
heal me,
Let me be healthy,
So that I can live my dreams,
And photograph,
And experiance,
All that is in my heart,
All that is me.
I want to feel hot white sand beneath my feat,
To stand underneath the Saharan sun,
to feel that great heat,
To Stand upon Rapau Nui,
To FEEL that island beat,
I want to gaze upon the pyramids,
That are ages old,
To gaze upon greek statues of Zeus,
Marble and Gold.
To see forests,
Forever untouched by man,
To visit places,
Unique upon all the lands.
Seattle is my home,
From Father Mountains,
And Mother sea,
But I want to see those places that I always dream of.
Lord,
God,
Let me be free,
Let me healthy.
Or,
To hell with that,
Let me,
Be,
Tenacious enough,
To do what I dream of,
Anyway,
Good God,
Just let my spirit soar,
Let me see,
Let me Photograph,
Just,
LET ME BE FREE,
Just let me open my eyes to beauty,
and let me see.
(with camera in hand)
Long I stand,
Healthy or not,
Let it be known,
Life's,
God's,
Gaea's,
Great beauty,
I have sought.
Gone on too long,
This poem has rambled.
Dear lord,
Let me,
See.
At the end of my days,
Be it months or years,
Let me see those mountains,
Seas,
Shores and streams,
Let me see those places,
that constantly show up,
That shine through my dreams.
Let me see,
With camera in hand.
Sick or healthy.
Every part of me,
Will do my damndest,
to fight,
To take pictures,
and to stand,
Upon those shores,
sands and streams,
that beckon me,
through my dreams.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Is she??
More frequently she dominates
half of my well-being she's the dominant
does that mean she's lovable?
She carried out a quest
searching for my love in the deep Saharan desert
and managed to demolish any unworthy bonds of them beasts
guys tell me, is she that lovable?
Every time I take a look in her mind, she's thinking about me
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
*It burrowed through her heart like a scared mole
sending ripples of pain straight to her soul
disbelief clogged her eyes as she watched discombobulated
by a lot of images strange and very unrelated
the air smelled of rose flower which scent didn't fit the moment
for her skin was weaved in piercing thorns of torment
her mind was a rim spinning contrary to the globe
as a dull alien sensation throbbed beneath her lobe
she could smell blood as vivid as it tested coppery
and her sky blue eyes turned bloodshot and teary
so much for an adventure she thought
she couldn't place her position in her congested mind
yet she had none but little strength much as she fought
she perspired yet it was darker than sunny
as she regretted focussing on the destination ,not the journey
Entering her vintage car was all she could remember
for her brain was roasting worse than a burning ember
it was like going through hell head first
made worse by the itching sub Saharan thirst
she mourned and cursed but after a time passed
she realised her agony was eating her voice
and instead ******** whispers leaving her no choice
but silence for she was suddenly voiceless and dumb
she tried to lift limb after limb but all were numb
she couldn't even blink as much as she couldn't think
serpentine tears crawled out her chilly visage
yet she could hardly scratch
All she saw was a blurry image
like she'd taken too much scotch
Had she? Had she tried to drink away her pain
**** the steering pressed into her chest
squeezing her heart, bruising her breast
the agony,despair and pain was driving her insane
she suddenly remembered every detail as the car heated
she was escaping from reality whence she cheated
Did she really think few bottles of bitter wine
would fix her mistakes,that drunk she'd feel fine?*
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
this is a voicemail to the girl I’ll never call
beep
Hey, remember how you used to tell me that you couldn’t wait to see the world?
The first place you wanted to travel to was Paris, you said that it’s just something
you have to do.
You told me all of the things in Paris that you wanted to do, like shop in thrift stores
and look across the city on top of the Eiffel Tower, hope to see a celebrity and take pictures with them.
We both knew that there were various school programs to study abroad but you didn’t want to go to school there, you just wanted to enjoy life there, for just a while.. not too long, not too brief.. at most, two weeks.
I wondered if you’d send postcards back home or bring back some goodies that you stumbled upon.
I couldn’t wait to hear the stories you’d tell me.
beep
It’s me again, I bought a journal with the Eiffel Tower printed on the front, all of the pages were blank.
I started to fill them in.
Suddenly, weeks went by and I realized that only one page had been inked.
It’s not like I had writers block or I didn’t know what to say to you, I just…
for the first time, I just wasn’t able to say or do anything.
Everything was silent, the pages, silent.
The ink, invisible.
The communication, gone.
I tried to go back time after time to ink the blanks, but nothing ever came out.
I’m still waiting for the stories.
beep
I miss you.
beep
This is my third attempt on this one voicemail.
I’m not ashamed to say that I got emotional in the last one, lucky for you, I deleted it.
Now it’s off somewhere in dead space.
I wonder If you’ve been to Paris yet.
I wonder if you’ve seen the city there, late night.
The way the tower glows, the way the city flows, its magical.
It’s almost like a wonderland.
I wonder if you remembered my mailing address for the postcards…
Maybe you sent them and they got lost in transit.
Its the thought that counts. Someday, they’ll find a home.
Someday, you’ll return home.
beep
I think I’ve ran out of things to say.
I’ll stop calling…
beep
I want to see the world too. I want to go places that I never thought I’d go.
I walk to climb mountains, cross vast rivers, sail the oceans, I want to live.
I want to bike across Europe, horseback the country in America, Ride a camel in the great Saharan desert, find love in Paris…
find love in paris…
find love in..
beep
I promise, this will be the last time.
This will be the last time.
I just have one last thing to say.
It’s been far more than two weeks
I wonder why I’ve been waiting for the stories,
when in reality I could tell my own.
I could have a pin pal
I could study abroad
I could learn french, travel to quebec
I could learn french, road trip to Louisiana
I could learn french, and speak the language of love
still, I wait to hear your stories…
beep
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Her heart sunk into a half moon
before fully disappearing from view.
Her head hung the way clothes do
from coat hangers
and no words could be said
to raise these organized thoughts
into some holy clarity.
She wept now
not for the lack of love,
but an abundance of it
and it ate at her illusionary ego
the way venues of vultures do cadavers.
Warm blood glazed on their beaks
in exhausting Saharan heat.
Hardly a reason to ruffle feathers
for the scavengers who have come to eat.
His words gushed in devious waves
like raging oceans unsure
of the storm still far from landfall
but she saw through the salty cover
of his convoluted spoken screeds
to see the tsunami approaching
with such ferocity.
"Are you breaking up with me?"
her voice trembled
like the echoing hiss of a violin
as it struck its final cord
in an auditorium of empty seats.
His lecture ceased,
he had yet to reach the conclusion
she had foreseen for several weeks.
The silence grew between them
calming both wind and sea.
The tidal wave would have demanded
rebuilding and temporary peace
but the nothingness arrives
on the hushed breath of the heavens,
bringing with it both
the ship from Delos
and the poison hemlock ****
He drank of it,
thus his love of her succumb
to everlasting sleep.
It becomes but a past life,
only to visit him in haunting dreams.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
I had a dream we were stuck in the desert
A beautiful oasis forming at the basis of our feet
When a group of soldiers came right out of the mirage
Shot you down
And left me to die
Right by your side
Then I realized that I would join you there soon
Either under the eyes of the Saharan Sun
Or by the gift given from the trigger of my gun
I had to make a choice, one I could no longer live with
I'm tired of staring down
This barrel
Waiting for
The bullet to make its move
You came to me like an astronaut
Unafraid while others ran away
From my ship hidden among
All the forgotten and unwanted
You talked to me like you understood me
Like you knew me or saw right through me
You made me feel like I could be apart of
What I always wanted
You made me feel like a human being
It felt so real when I had to close your eyes
Couldn't keep pretending that you were still alive
With shaky hands, I pointed the barrel at my mind
And just sat there
Thinking twice
All about taking my life
Just sat there
Unable to move
Pulled real hard
Only to
Wake up in my own bed
It still felt like you were dead
https://spencercarlson.bandcamp.com/track/saharan-sun
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
Imperial palaces
sweeping the landscapes for
miles beyond the eye's vision
gleaming in their perennial silhouettes
sparkling down the dies
shimmers of light rebounding off their sharp heads
piercing the sky
and the eagles
soaring round incessantly
until the clouds move to their momentum
spinning on apparent winds
grudging none their splendour
printing the ages.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
In a crowd looking out
my love, the world
under a waterfall
of milky moonlight
I am but a star
in a constellation of many
her, the world
my heart's captor
though as bright as I shine
my light is in vain
her, the world
only sees the sun
Perhaps a dream
will guide my way
or your bluish glance
will connect with me
her, the world
my heart's captor
seas of splendor
and curves of heaven
I know one day
you'll come to see
that I the star,
am plain to see
a sun up close,
for now i'm far
my light will kiss
your delicate face
where life resides
and birth awaits
these chapters come
and soon will go
for this I know
our time will come
oh, to be
just like the sun
warming your skin
of saharan mud
oh my love,
of blue and green
I pray to you
so you'll look to me
Saturn's rings
she can't contend
nor Mar's skin
her sunlit charm
A planet amongst many,
my earth of green and blue
though my light
my love,
was always for you
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC
I was lost in the Bermuda triangle
It was like Egypt in a sea of flesh
the great pyramid
******* in all surrounding life
A tilted triangle I thought
circumscribed around your hunger
but you knew my weakness
Told me it was a fig
fresh
succulent
sweet
so I bit into its sweetness
leaving my smile on your thighs
Told me it was a grapefruit
You were right
I bent down and tasted it
pink
juicy
kind of sweet
kind of ****
I ate every section
lingering
around the center
with my tongue
There were tremors in your skin
as I swallowed your body
as you swallowed my hardness
as your body
swallowed the milk of my trembling
I came to Egypt
I came in the great pyramid
between sky and sand
The Pharaohs were waiting for us
You were waiting for me
I visited the pyramids in Mexico
and was jungled in
like green-iguana-slowness
like Asian fever
sweet and sweaty
swollen like an anaconda
moving in and out
digesting the heat of a fresh ****
In Sudan, the Saharan winds
shatter the pyramids into pieces
I lick their dryness like a cat its fur
let the heat burn my bowels
Now there are tremors on my skin
I exhale breath of wet fire into your lips
and rain down upon your body
like night crashing into the surf
like sweat pouring into the sea
like sand screaming into the wind
I even became the wind
so as to enter every part of your smoothness
slipping past even your seditious skin
The wind has no mercy
We draw shapes in the morning light
with our naked bodies
while only the birds cover us
with their fluttering wings
made of the down
of your brown belly
I tasted that too
like Indian velvet
like a Bahian feast of papayas
maracaja and guarana
Da danca do mar
In Brazil the sensuous sun seeps
into the scorched sand where our form was
and cuts through the hot flesh of the earth
To the center
where all desire has fused
has seeped through the surface
To the center
where my mouth burns from wanting
To the center
where your wetness burns my tongue
To the center
Your center
I
Will
Return
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
*Justin Bieber's Dreadlocks Show
How White People (Still) Steal Everything
(vice news)...*
yep, and Beyoncé isn't... because it's natural
for hair in a sub-saharan environment
to be without afro curls... smooth and slick...
and partially blonde... ain't it *****
yep... tell 'em how it is! women out-cold
in cold sweats due to sunstroke should they
have demanded hair fitted for a near Arctic
environment of near perpetual darkness
among gingers in scotland.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
The sky is a generous grey, beneath whose pending charity, sentinel palm trees stray. Whilst impetuous Atlantic gusts, act as a guide to the tourist of Saharan dust, from our heritage far away... yet unclaimed.
And so it shall remain, for domiciled within Barbados' Summer paradise; I would ask only for the rain; that it might wash these seared whip wounds of Sun's splendour... away.
The fruit trees are as my family's; their abundant branches intertwine and then once more, rewind to form a clan. Yet, their want of leaves says to all, of the prospect of Summer's well-fed famine... they had made no plans.
So, we would ask only for the rain; that it might wash away the browned chlorophyll of a cruel Summer's plague. Much like nightmares... to be preserved only within the introspective and reflective archives of Yesterday.
Upon bent knees, I humbly appeal to the Holder of Divinity - Nay! I pray, for but a half empty, half full cup of rain.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 11:29 AM UTC
I’m the moon
Orbiting around your pull
I’m the humid june
Wrapped around you like wool
I’m the palm
Of God’s trembling hands
I’m a ticking bomb
The Saharan sands
I’m the forever
I said I never could be
I’m your latest endeavor
As alive as the Dead Sea
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
The sharpened stone of summer steps,
Hewn from the Tuscan crust,
Lies cool in terracotta shade
And wind-fetched, thin saharan dust.
Soft footsteps on a flagstone floor,
A sweep of homesewn skirt,
Cool churches where our shadows died
And freed our dreams to dance and flirt.
We yearn for birdsong, peace and sleep
For leather, wood and wine -
A life where rosebuds mark our path,
Lived in a straight unwavering line.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
never could I touch the skin that wilted upon
your chest like my heart desired, for my heart was too fragile
I feared my soul would break, and leak all over your glittering skin.
I did not wish to contaminate you with the death that lived within me
in those distant and dark days. I did not wish for you to be a sponge.
nor my cigarette filter. My attempt was only to protect you from
myself.
what I feared most was seeing me in you.
seeing the bits and pieces of my soul that have been missing
hiding somewhere between your thumb and index finger in that warmth.
my poems repeat themselves in agony
they drag me along with them in suffice
I can't control this
its just that sometimes, I choose not to
but I can't
you move Saharan, I only wish you still did
dedicated to those who saw only the intro
never the middle
never the ending
I kiss your ankles
forgive me.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 10:09 AM UTC
Landfall...
a progress
nipped by headwind,
though his bullish heart
has flickered clear of drowning,
so he's dusting down
Saharan surplus, hawking
off the sea-sick yachts,
ensconced in royal chiffon,
appealing for that magnet-tug
along the pollen flyways
pulling homeward..
and
I wonder
if he sees me,
-mid shipped twitter
post Johannesburg-
a gurning
plate of swan-necked
adulation, craning skyward
that I should pin
my yearnings to his
cloud-encrusted orbits
caws of folly..
more fanciful
than summer being
borne upon his wings...
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 4:47 AM UTC
minutes ago I thought you left me
but you return like a raging revelation
stricken like vampires in the vultures nest
on the night when silence consumes brittle
sentimentality
and white owls howl their wordless short comings
moments ago I thought I had been drained
but then when execution of fortresses that
burn like brittle twigs on the warmest day of all summers
burn in me
for even in the draining of words there are words
even in the most Saharan and drought seconds in life
there is poetry
the soles of my feet burn in this desert
my blood simmers with the heat
my body lags and sweats the sweat of Egyptian slaves
and my moments in this anxiousness feel like days
I have endless mirages and within them
I see many things in all sorts of ways
I believe that time and time again you have saved me
from the remorse of countless burdens that I hold on top of my chest
I lay on my back, heavy
and I feel as though that the insanity in every asylum
screams its anxiety into my woman breast
and then at some breaking point in time
you make my hands shake with the nervousness
of writing my **** thoughts down on paper
and I give those screams to you
my beloved poetry
it is not you that abandons me
it is I that abandons you
its my self punishment and self reserve
of selfishness looking to find something deeper
when nothing goes deeper than you
and I write this as a reminder within my awakening
of these revelations of potency and a committed relationship
to make love to and feel you from the gloomy inside
it is you my passion that I will stay committed to
you are the reason that I have come to be
you are the reason that I learned to differentiate between being a child and a youth
you are the reason that I have grew
it is indeed because of you that I have crossed borders of
mental recognition and went places that others wouldn't dare to go
in thought
so that I may gather the seeds and relentless loves in life
so that I can give them to you to help you flourish and grow
so that when I am gray, wrinkled, and old
I may bask
harmoniously in a vast garden full of the plants of life
dead and alive
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
One more drift another shift and into one more desert dune but soon the secrets are revealed, the sand alive, it feels like I could dive into the sea and be swallowed by the pyramid tree.
Oasis,
calm and full of camel **** where camels sit and make their wills, hump-backed hills which I ascend, they tend to disagree about the pyramid, the tree and me, I dive again into and underneath the sea of shifts, am lifted far below the sky where scorpions sting and Angels cry, it feels like I could almost die but almost is not nearly there.
Mirage,
jet streams dreaming, gleaming in my hand, and all within a grain of sand,
glass eyes look on, they see the pyramid, they see the tree, they seldom look with beady eyes upon the figure that is me.
Teddy and his picnic tree had better luck than anything that I could see
but Teddy sets himself apart, straw head, straw legs and arms, straw heart,
the dune and Ted and the pyramid led me here, the tree was in the desert all along and the camels sit, still in **** and will do 'til the Sun goes down.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC