Fluorescent moon, and I’m on a glowing castle over hollowed park benches, gaping at the dull, red street signs that lapse between the distance of a burnt iron statute, over cobbled roads, and the bookstore wherein to purchase Fahrenheit 451 or Rilke’s letters to a young poet, and to imagine a directive in all that, an illusion, building about me.
Shifting forward, shuffling thru the shelves, the lampshade was lit, and I sensed the closing and walked back once more. The walk is full of desire, on the concrete bones of this city, and the Starbucks has shuttered away, dimming the lights to a flickering agony, and I can graze my mind to a different day. A day modeling laughs, and passion and people, all of which can forget me, as time goes by, but my memory saunters and sashays in front of me like a spotted leopard that’s never been a paid a day in his life, but he’s got the fire and he walks with it.
With the reveal of my mind, I can propagate myself to that iconic moon, and laze around the town, with the violent flare of sun that will drop like hippie acid within the wait of a rest, and the weight of a silk-root deepening, dipping and burying itself onto my cold body, making me warm, keeping me comfortable until sleep.
So, in conclusion and consequence all I wanted was nothing, the good, dreamy, mainstream kind we all think about, when we’re stressing in deception, and ascension of perfection, meeting in touch, and another fate. I wouldn’t lie. I won’t make a sound.