Psychedelia

Unplugged grunge minute on TV.
Electric seconds grizzling in the static stares. 
Manic hours at the Hawaiian harbors.

“Maybe I should play the bawdy saloons in the black villages. Maybe Algerians are my true calling. Maybe morgues are my native habitat. Maybe I should stroll through Big Sur or an island”

An occult moon, a spaceman tripping on there. Life’s full of desire, death’s full of desire. Swoop, voodoo, hoodoo. Voodoo, hoodoo, swoop.

I wanna die. I do.
I wanna fly. I do.
Love life. I do.
Live life, I won’t.

Possibly it all goes wrong. Possibly I’m blessed. It’s a dim heaven. Possibly, I am born. The chances fade out from the eyes.

I like the ripples of rain outside the salty sills of silicon. I like Mexico, Portugal and I like Cambodia.

Prison dreams.

Take me through caravans, cook me in a trailer park, boil me in microwaves, leave room for my Rumi, buy me a Byron, bake me a Blake. Take me, take me. From forever, always an angel.

Black and white holiday. This is paradise, dim heaven. 
In the mystic lands of existence
Man is the only witness to eternity
Interpreting weddings of profuse interactions
And the partings of paramours
A waste of weeps is one who lazes in fleshed being
Becoming the core of our faith
Are the ferociously still of lost time 
In the funerals of all poverty 
Lies the true light of happiness
Understanding the cremations of misbegotten freedom
Occurs within the glow of multiple syllables
Of culture and vital force. 


Fresh out of mistrust and sad, sad, hot, hot weather. Unforgiving winter, royal springs.

Listen

Loudly

Begging, thieving and lying

Amidst an endless life

Funny tries, dangerous trials blinded by the sparking rain.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I have my life, Light my life
Tomorrow knows how we suffer today
And T.S Eliot may know how we may have suffered yesterday
We've escaped certain times, like distant future and such
Jim Morrison is looking for us in all the wrong phases 
 Of eras, days and purposes. 
Ever since I collaterally collapsed 
I've been hearing Space Oddity.
But I'm not my own this time around,
You may be on your own in a forgotten  world
I'm just gone
leaning for the opacity of a nightly abstraction.  
 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Published by

Watt

It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

20 thoughts on “Psychedelia”

  4. Strangely entrancing.

    There’s a naked honesty underneath the confusion, lines that shine so true, so resonant:
    (I wanna die. I do.
    I wanna fly. I do.
    Love life. I do.
    Live life, I won’t.)

    And then, the bursts of incoherence, but with a subtle desperation to it (Take me through caravans, cook me in a trailer park, boil me in microwaves, leave room for my Rumi, buy me a Byron, bake me a Blake. Take me, take me. From forever, always an angel.)

    A piece that shifts with every read, teasing, mocking.

    I’ll never be able to make full sense of it, but that, I suppose, is the real appeal.

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