With Dreams in Supernatural Ecstasy

Dark eyes muffled underneath scarfs notwithstanding,
The shades of gloom blackening cherub heads and new aged nests
Of people that trip side terrapins towards the subterranean pacific,
Wearing trenches to turn the tides and the oceanic waves,
Into screwy oily brinks of passageways, that could make them glorious ready.
A generation of relentless greed, degenerate dreams, cabling the system that starves starkness bare.
In thru ballrooms and wearing tourniquets, and fire as uniforms, marching the matriarchy
Toward the storm of our apocalyptic magnificence that disappears and withers and wilts,
In its beginning, without a prophecy of doom, but a truth that lives its lies in growing shadows,
In the cover of hearts, and tones of checked ways, at the meridians of standard understanding,
And the final rusty dwindling, waning, the pacing of hell in eternal charts carpeting the rooms
Bleakly furnished by skeletons, and artfully settled on thrones made of barbwire that burned off on the run,
At the lush rush of race that regimented its introduction in centuries that seconds passed.
And the cruelty that subsequently surpassed, in the hysterical history of ugly neediness, 
And dependence in passions plagued by punishment. 

Somebody Tonight

The avenue sleeps as the neon flames thru the marquee hung above the bars.
The chanteuse sings a tune in her acoord.
And you lay your head on the marbled counter, musing at midnight an angry poem, vanishing in the cobwebs of your thoughts, while your mood withers in the pattern of ironic changes.
Your mind occluded by themes of burning Saturday in company so intently, amidst the chant of such dim strangers,
You’re desiring that you could have the sun as your eyes- scorching whomever you want; the clouds as your beard so you can hide your tears like the rain; a radio for ears, so you don’t have to listen to the confessions and interviews of actual people, only celebrity types and all you want to hear otherwise is music.
Your freedom has been confiscated by a pretense that was symptomatic in lifestyle,
Draped in jewels of quasar-diamonds in your ring,
The constellations of episodes disappear in your histrionic cranium,
Your veins like tunnels on which tequila overflows.
The hunger blackening the tips of your mind, twitching your fingers, bruising your chest, and touching your spine with a cold clutch.
Endless nights, awaiting your tenement apartment where you can lie blankly, just la-la-la lie down.

Grief

I stepped out of the hospital towards the cold breeze and the grey sky. The fluorescent lights of the stores smashed against their utility, which was decimated to none because I had nothing to ask for. The blankness amazed me, I was swept off to the alleys, behind crypts, walking the boardwalks, lines, toward the unknown spurts of locations. Maybe there were places in the world sadder than this, or maybe more beautiful, but for that moment now, the city seemed hateful, engrossed in a busy talent, distant, and unwelcoming like all places in the melancholy paint that lazed here, to graze a field there, where I was not, somewhere drilling a tunnel to connect further. There might be places brooding darker in their search for uniqueness but what scalded over me was a school of bitterness that entangled growth with such devious notions that couldn’t be overcome by the train of imagination, or the notoriety of remembrance. Did I have to be so lost, did I have to be so far away from a place that I never had, home? I wasn’t robbed of a home, I never accepted the one I had for its flaws. The bars, galleries, apartment complexes complicated the skyline that I wanted desperately to be consumed by, I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss. I wanted to plummet without it actually happening, since I wanted to be there to see myself survive, I wanted to be another person, a spectator of myself and others, a bridge, another; just not what I was, never in this time…

Ruminating the soul could be helpful, maybe that’s what they were all doing. I kept everything contained in my jarred souls, where memory was churning into a sweet jam and becoming a cause of inspiration towards the vague corners of vicious passage. And as I embarked on the voyage to move onward the oceans of faded time, just as fast as I could, to inhale the truth, to realise that when you’re imitating nothing, life is the ultimate truth. The setting parts with light thru the sighing shadows that began to dance in accord with the rippling instability of the lampshades. A netted veil covered my sorrow, and I took apart the pieces of recall, and got free, got idle, looking for a mission, a reason to completely abandon the emotive weight. A psychedelic lie could shamelessly carry me to my bed, illuminate the way to the top, and educate me about the things that I have to do.

Endless Catches in a Hundred Arrows

“My feelings are a stage, and the actors loan me an ashen daze, to which I must comfortably submit, I must conveniently pay. There is no sole liberation, there is only a constancy to which I comply, for it might be wrong to be the believer that may rue the morgue of actual rightness. I live my life by swimming between schools that could possibly identify my novelty, if I leave I might get lost. The planetary rules apply and revolve around my locked head, because they embody elements that inevitably blaze around me, quiver in between my thighs, make crooked circle that twist my eyes and kindle fires that surround truth, everything that could happen will be an abstraction under my possession, my unstable guardianship. How elusive is radical change? But if I walk away, try to attain difference, I know I will confront untamed comparisons to another life, consequently, instead I should try to translate the complexities of unhappiness to an evermore stand, and I will follow the nostalgia of tonic time”


Life is iconic, and its icons coast thru endless eras, forever as remembrances. They carry forth the bread of unhindered routines, to a factory that casts spells in widening ravines and feeds voyagers- that’s us on this planet.

Aviary

The bells toll proudly, thru the way in which a street is hazed, flagged with fables, salted from grace. I travel, celebrating the minutes of light, and as I widen my revelations to dress the horizons, as I drive, I spark a bevy of memories, of faults, of cheers, of yesterday, and towards the secrets and whispers that float a star trail apart in the times that lazed here, now grazing there with no matter in between. The sea whistles a poem to be unraveled by someone of a caliber well known to me, as I had reached the waterfront, and the stares mawkishly mock the wind rippling auroele in the spots of the sea below a golden djjay shade, the electricity of stillness disturbed by the play of weather. I had stopped to witness, but now I carry on again, I continue my attempts to attain an attestment that states years out of my aviary, after the climate that dangles unfazed and perfumed by a spectral mist, that I drearily found as I was missing a path to escape, as I was searching for a spine to wear and travel further. The ecstasy of adventures drips thru my hands, amid my trials to reject or admit my admiration to the confessions of my greater half, my better mind, my sweeter heart that awaits all the way to the top, or discovering it all the way back home, which I have left to run. I drive even now, a little slower, slower.

Visions Off The Wall

The mighty minute of the leisured blue world, as I walk to explore, there ascends a broader highway, the planks build nearby, with three men lining its balcony and singing “What do you do wrong?” Shadows seal the key passage, it is the end of the line, it is a judgement to which I can’t say no, I cannot deny it here. But an escalator emerges and carries me off to shore.

A sandstorm filled the wind, strongest in its first fifteen minutes. The hit started swaying alongside the magnitude of the wind, the house in which I went became more susceptible to drifting. Time needed to be drugged with Prozac or some seizure medicine, the ground emerged from beneath the ground, the manic hour began drizzling, sizzling gawking all over the places, sporting roars of gust, the planks began to tear in the anterior and started imploding, the wood blocks started to tear and fly toward the ramparts. People walked and ran, fast, fast, hatefully fast, speeding, exploding thru a reality of corrupt glory, a dark glitter beating in the doorway, zigzagging through each corner, coarsely runny time, grenades exploded, guns were fired from outside the house, I began to trundle like a stone, wheeling myself to find a way out, I could hear shrieks outside- a man’s. I tried to trap a squall before rushing to save others, people bawled, people sniffed or was that a hallucination within the hallucination. Punches lapped, a body flew in thru the downward, the sand entered my eyes, and I was irritated, quite literally. I could feel the pain that arises when the person most close to you is done in the dark, wherein that person palely shines, with a halo, and phantoms escaping to subway walls, the bells toll in supermarkets. The roof hatted the ground soon, everything tumbled, guns had been shot, bombs exploded consecutively and simultaneously, I had to escape. “I’ll miss knowing you forever, you were my life, my most recent adventure” I closed my eyes so I could be awake and see the relics of it, the survival. 

I like the way that the world is a little older.

Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.

Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.

Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.