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.  
 

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

Thought Row

I think it was an archaic Portuguese map that led me to to the opening sequences of eternity, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I have the triggering capacity to choose what I need to be closer to. The Swiss people dive into azures and dance around me, the ultramarine finish and I’m finally freed, freer than my corrupt feelings. How the yellow lights glimmer warmly around me and I can catch all the graciousness and slide it into a fresh pocket on my faded velvet vest, I was still preparing for climbing the suicidal pulpit rock to attain a rewarding varnish. I feel colorful amid the rocky parades celebrating all the good people; when I’m hit by heavy hitting happiness, when I’m concentrating on all that is pointing towards a still and unimportant infinity that will never kills noble refrains. Shadows of the swan’s shrines and the meadows of cypress trees, with a cloudy clarity kissing the lips of land as it reacts to my introduction, my manifestation of an alive unreality- life’s afterword. And I had watched from my window the squalling flamingos, the bouquets of hydrangeas and a symbolic pizzazz withstanding albums of the horror of a burnt time past-the truths that bring a humane world so much closer. When I was receding the last land of synthetic fallacies, the stairway and the following tunnel ran until I wanted it to; as I cycled my tandem alone with all my souvenirs and felt the arthritic rhythm of the demonically painted ramparts, on a dark night of ripples and the final calls of religious video games. What I’ve had was enough to suffice the label of a happy mess. I do realize now that I was, in fact, a speck whose only movement arose from the tantrum of a screaming child of an evolved creed, and most other times I stood still and the normalcy and insanity were in my flying head. Wild daylight spent feeding vagabonds in the lake. Prints of celluloid making trances chalking heaven and translating it to a happy-happy afterword. A thousand kilos could always help a little in the heat of a staggering sentence and gesture thanks to the pullers who helped me knock on the tolerating temples of the seventh heaven. È una casa celeste che desideravo e amavo, amore vero e prese magiche che fluiscono dal detto vero amore. But its too late. I’ll be hearing fanfares and violins to greet me at a mansion, the home of the firmaments.

Ecotone

 What we have-what you had.
Dark, dark grains in the crops of betrayal.
A maudlin sensation worth all despise.
The daytime shining, and a nighttime good for us.
Absent as an adage.
Severe, severe. Ever so sinisterly.  
Warnings to all holding time, holding company.
The moments decimated by remains,
The moments punctuated by loss,
Prove severe, sinister. Ever so severely.
Viscera strewn over the light,
Over the skirt of the country,
In the alarming accents.
Accelerate the abducts of trailing dungarees,
Of weathermen, sinner men,
Like the radio reverie we’re living in.
Strangled sobs and dangling sounds,  
 Sonorous to the sheath armies brittle bridge. 
The newness of blooming nurseries set in a sphere
Of abandon.
The aerated abilities of passion trapped in an aviary
Far away.
The noon of good expressions quilting a menagerie
of scandium.  

  Havoc in an awakening. 
In a dream of adventure,
You're there and I'm there,
With the greed and the bliss,
Awake in an abyss. 

I’ll look for you in movie screens, I’ll look for you magazines. I’m taking off the sirens scene .

Revelry Montage

Thwarting the charge of saddening silence is a new sanguinity. Heading towards a vortex to illuminate the veils coolly, heading onward a Hungarian arcade, basking in a wishy-washy western factory, the haberdashery. Whatever causes torsion in the poems of my form persists only in the lost side of my inner self as a shriveled memory. Magically a moment is dim heaven lit singly by a golden bulb, set in discotheque valley. Gerund- cindering the plume of albatross crest as the flock of them voyages ahead the zone of rear twilight. Quartets on ashy Thursdays, two memories of burnt Mondays. The static drift that comes from honeyed others, sweetens the cargo, sweetens the crew, and conquers the passenger to a propelled story in the purgatory tempest. Colloquial is the crux of the affair that’s pretty in the wickedness of the edgy, blankly canvassed words amassing the art of fortunes.

Mistress Heroin

The actor out on the loan had earned himself a mistress from around the funeral grounds.

Peyote was bedding the wildness of the soil on the day of blooming grief, budding in every casket, in the glisten of every colored iris and butterfly wings breaking at the hold of barefooted angels. All this and the awful truth. But that’s a party later on. He remembered Show Boat, He forgot Singing in the Rain. Tied to the eye of the sun’s dress, with the tint of jazzy rainbows strolling through the gentle whirls in the lyrical immediacy of the blustery weather. It’s all the things he was, streets via well-heeled borders, glowing orange in the castles looming over Albert Camus’s climb back to town, Bands crucifying candelabras to the vacancy of hollowed, disillusioned park benches. Waiting for somebody very mad to fabricate confessions for storming new best friends in the gloomy vanish of epic glory. Monuments walking on water, waiting to give birth to an independent contribution someday, born with the pride of homeless grace. Walk, walking between the railroads which you can call home, a bony road dressed in white cement wearing emerald paint blighted by the mission joy.


When they come, they box the ripples of Hungarian rain. She’ll be loitering around the Bowery mansions. Bleeding to the drop, scabbing all the lusty lemons to the big fields for hibernation, all islands in the larger commitment of decorating the chest of the city. Sixteen cotton shirts divided between each other. Writing with grease on the walls of Freehold electric stores, taking to the earth their difference. Somedays that’s all he wanted, someone to shuffle with during September nights and March intakes, with the smash of a broken bottle and the glow of a fluorescent moon. House tiled with Big Sur rocks, familiar fatherlands with a country love.  

Telltales to tourists in the swing of blueberry fields thru the safari of dreamy states, woody breaths of Vermont. The carriage of rags to the surf shops to be perched on a lifeguard stand, with five strings of starry sweetness interviewed by spectators who pushed to believe that innocence imitates the lost distance between them and the world.

But soon he had to close his eyes since she was leaving home with the expert toss of coherent thoughts. Another loss between love and loathe beating the trigonometry of injecting interpolations by Jerry Garcia. Heaven blesses the thief of problems and lessens the light in a surly life. It all goes right with the operations of administrative intentions that are nice and alright. Studyin’ the great outdoors with his new best friend, the one he found in Tuba City, they jubilated over Raymond Carver’s endless counts in amity poetry. He who had passed through the Further bus and its riders can travel in a healthy way while still in good shape and can picnic amid grass just as long as there is a promised upcoming.

And that was called the bar of two workers on the wrong side of real days. She didn’t know much, he only worked at mind. And the baby TV was giving his head to the guillotine of familial abandon, and the sirens wailed to give way to his end. Ever which way was the bitter victory of the old rangers.