Iconic Soul

Thoughts are surging inward the mind, and outward the eye, meeting the grey waterfront. And the sun is veiled in pebbled blobs of clouds, which raises, by hand, a mindset that travels on painted walls, and tightens within you, but in blackness.

Tightens, still.

You search for the escape, from the electric theater of human bondage, but in real life you’re in tranquil slow-motion. A hundred arrows chasing after you, with a screeching imprint of words racing away, as you stand, gazing the mystery of the waves squeezing the shore, and the concrete that gives place to you seems to be salted by gravel spilled from the ovenbirds that that set ablaze the sunshine, and then crash against the pillar of your resting palms.

Stare fixed at the horizon, nose flaring at intervals in semblance to segments of broadcast news.

Standing motionless, with a psychological dream at repetition, a movie projected on a celluloid monitor like the one you saw in Ibiza, or Ljubljana, or two meters away from home. Home. Where you’re going to be next, with your heart still intact, and your veins throbbing in dull pumps of blood, but your mind flourishing in darkened colors. Soon, you will tear the folds of the paint-tube, to release a splash of paint onto the world, which is a tainted canvas, and you are its cult leader for the minutes to follow under possession.

The noose loosens? It does now.

Words that magnify ache, and oven mittens that bake pastries, devouring in the existential cartoon tragedy show, which life is, happiness being the ads that attack and invade the television, trying to brainwash you into a vortex of zero contemplation, and full-on amazement toward dance, and drinks, and laughs. The scene is set. And you box one word hitting another, until knockout – the beautiful win whereat you finished an entirety. Now, its time to publish, bask on a softened mattress, dream a little dream of tomorrow. Tomorrow. With all its sickening parties, fizzy morning espresso, and all things in between.

Cross-Stitch Quilting

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.

Sparrow Blue

Amid the heat of the night, the city craze, and the pretty heights, he lay again….stargazing…..his brain surfing thru images of denim shorts, white shirt or a tee-shirt stitched with leather strands….in each synapse there was a sizzle.

The day had been okay….in the spell that lives life so intensely….just minutes before midnight, and hours after the sunset….He was willing to enjoy every minute of nightfall.

After it beset him to go under-cover, and hide behind a dreamy applause….Oh, the ways that can find you profoundly at the gates, and carry you to a bed, paint your eyes blue…educate you about the things that he never had to do…. He dreamt, and he slept sleeplessly, sharply turning, anticipating a point that would fix things.

It was an evening alone…..He sunk deep into the pillow, brooding darker….Concentrating on the pulse that travelled inward the flesh, divining the bones, and breathing angelic air into the nostrils….

Soon, his inevitable epiphany arose, much like most times…..and toward the cultic belief of healing, he focused his energy…and shook himself, gathering his feet in his hands…..Sitting upright…out of bed….swiveling in a bland office chair, and humming the national anthem.

It feels that isolation stems from the self alone…as the ponds of disappointment dip biscuits and pool their dirt onto the blackening….and perhaps the perpetuation is in every second, every moment…. there’s no escape….there’s nothing really….so he would have to try to make better things tomorrow, and feel better….loosen the ball and chain….and dangle freely….Awaiting winds to sway him across to a place of progress, and movement.