Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.

Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.

Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.

Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.

Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.

Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves  when the alternative is television.

Selfishly in the night I raise you from the dead.
each suture cleanly picked, caressed and bled
until I'm lost. I wake to pink skies.
Gray memories call behind me: tentacular smoke
pulling, insisting, towards you, and hell.
but you were one for ice, not fire.

If I turn quickly I can still see it:
'two skinny long-hairs' in an empty hall
blushing, secret, tripping into a kiss
knocking together and  sliding past innocent days.
I didn't blame you, naturally, but there's
blood on your hands and you still have my things.

So I close my eyes again and sail for another day,
another night to miss you, to watch you fall grain
by unnoticed grain in a sandglass.
already the light has changed and you no longer glow.
it is a cruel hope, but I know I shall awake
and one day, find no lover, only dust.

Rains of happiness are scanty and scarce
Darkness and pains blow perennially
Build shifting sand dunes, where you lose yourself

Occasionally I indulge in the ordinary
I capture the animals, talk to them, care for them
But that is occasional, mostly, I torment them

Darkness is what I truly adore and admire
It is its depths that fascinate me
The deeper I go, the deeper it gets

Bridges that I build all collapse
The momentary bliss of being normal
is a ******* illusion, that I try cling to

These reveries when they last
I feel happy, content, confident
Though I fear, soon they will vanish

And then would come the tentacular times
Difficult it then gets to differentiate
What is real from what is not.

I get a bit anxious, paranoid and schizoid
It's not as bad as it is for the sufferers
But it is a ******* anyway

Sometimes they last hours
Sometimes days and weeks
And at times, years

The worst part is that I won't even know
When the sandstorms take place of the rains
Later when I do, it seems impossible to get out

The triggers can be really subtle
But the madness they bring along is not
Sometimes the hot winds blow for no reason

Focus and conviction, I lack
Hence whatever I hold dear
I lose

Sometimes I feel like stopping to breathe
To finally end, the infinite loop of endless loops
The clusterfuck of gloom, a dance of dismay

I have tried building defence mechanisms
But whatever it is, it mutates and manifests
In ways that are different from before

I know nothing holds any meaning
All this goes nowhere and will be worthless
But there are a few happy moments

My experiences may not be the best
But when there are rains
I tend to touch the skies

And I have learned
To carry on, even in the storms
But how far I would go?

All I wanted to say is this:
when I open myself like a wave,
or close my hands,
like a tentacular stem of a tree,
I am sensual of this love,
I am reminiscent as a candlelight:
my love bear with me,
for the real objects are not hidden,
in the soft caricature of the rising sun,
or by a descended hearing,
fluttering vision, starving touch,
but be it simply a recurring impulse or need,
clearing the pathways of my affection,
precious and remote, damp and cerebral.

Dark roots and boughs -
tentacular wraiths
poison earth and sky.

The free market ecology blooms.

I know when you close your eyes the tentacular black monster of oblivion comes to gawk at your feebility. There you are, on your path of misery and broken bottles. This time, I’ll make sure heaven won’t pick up thte pieces.

Because the man at the end of the road. He’s got them now.

One of those malfunction days
A day when you won’t work
Accomplish nothing, then the sun sets

You live for sunsets
Even here, in exile
They’re the time to let go

What else are we here for
But to dance in some forest
Or anywhere anyone’s dancing?

A dry day, uninspired day
Maybe not even worth editing
Dead day in the house of the dead

Sky is no shining pink this sunset
Even the clouds
Are tired of keeping up appearances

Only animals can always strive
They have the instinct to live
While we half want to cease

...To die

If you could wander back into your past, what would you change?
Just one night perhaps, that one night
Or two, or three, at most

Beyond that it spirals out of control, there’s no end to it
You’d spend your whole life
Fixing details

Was it one night? Perhaps it doesn’t work that way, the wrath of the Gods
Maybe the only way
Is to be reborn

Or perhaps it was simply Saturn’s passing mood, a little game
One chooses to play in a moment
But could choose otherwise

Surely they were tired of this unclean one storming heaven
On ***** wings
With blackened feathers

His twisted mind a-raging, half-orphaned, phantom-visited
No, wait, hold on, “nobody
wants to hear about your mind”

Or was it how you embraced the holy flame-haired monster
Stole her from someone
Who really needed her?

That was the crowning moment of a history of dividing
Dividing, debauchery, desecration
“Filthy English!”

Thus came Kali with her garland of skulls, driving out empires
Of savages from the Holy Land
Of Bharata

Which you, tentacular, were telepathically invading
With your retinue of Tibetan Wrathful Deities
From the Book Of The Dead

...Undead One