Sunday, February 17, 2013

"Almost Angels"

My ancestral eyes cannot outline
a light shot directly within in the withering dark
And the angels wait at the gates
of pearled splendor before the universe
appoints finite titles to all
The optics so calculated trump these wings of desire
and as I gather an ecstatic excess of information
only a quiet, studded white wall foreshadows angelic faces unknown
Faces that I hope to meet soon
Faces that breathe as I do
And I can't remember the early permutations of my sighs
The black wall, devoid of texture,
on the border of my optics and mind,
the link between vision and thoughts,
sees me express the build-up
Oh, so many, many shapes, patterns,
landscapes and faces
as I surrender a need to sleep
They form around the pupil,
never lingering within, never direct enough
to stare at and maintain
Facescapes and lands grow meaninglessly
towards completion, reaching only the
limit of a freezeframe before
sheathing themselves with the next
Like children's toes dabbling teasingly at the blank spherical wave's grasp
A game of maintaining dry feet as the waves contort endlessly
However, I am not always a child, and I do not laugh
as my limbs skim fleetingly across the endless charity of the eyes of the storm
At least the angels I see will be able to fly
soon enough

"Storytime"

I blankly mouthed her representation as
a presentation to one
with no specific purpose but to remember my story
lost in anhedonic hedonism
In other days, to other world I whispered
and murmur as a daily chore,
picking apart my favorite whore
who would trade her time for a story
A story screamed as I stalk my memory
and immortalize it as a true deliberation of power
one that in brief intervals
recreates perfection
To other worlds I joke in attempts
to recover this carefree history
that I would spend my eternity with new souls,
not mine, telling tall tales
To remember, to feel in the blanks
in the eternal, bold line that we rested on
To remind, to convince this con is
significant as more than any other
flattened dream in the
subdued continuity of man
If I joke enough yet remind as so,
the associations grow stale,
and I may be doomed to never laugh
beyond a repressed creation
You, independent, do not need to remind me such,
such mismatched thoughts as
my perturbed ideals
While I must remind you of my
quest of knowing no answers
If I don't remind you of this
durable past, what do you think of me?
If I don't remind myself,
what stories do I have to tell?
There is no re-minding, no aim on
rebranding, and an eternal anathema
on removing you from this
mind that easily removes so much

"Closure"

I could burst faster than
my own speed of lights
in an action to bend time
to what once was
Past the point of no return
where a foundation of rope
may shadow your every relocation
towards the source of light
Follow that light for it to be mine
to refract onto you
It fed me too much
Corners bent Unknown

And he drifts off to sleep
while trying to remember his dreams

"Jungle Power"

In the jungle I drew from
an extract of its grandest leaf
I climb, numb to the scabs
of a pained old canopy
To mimic the beasts I yearn to be
thoughts quelled and affirmed
by my command
I stop to taste the aroma of this preparation
as all my plans
become self-apparent and
the scabs unearth their cause
Still unable to feel my hands
I climb higher to the first
stretch which I never reached
The sky turns earthen and the
raindrops in the crust fall upwards
So I can't see the cracks
that I assume they unveil
The limbs thrust downward with
a brief wind keeping the
leaves in place
As I try to pick a final leaf
all turns gray
and my hands blend in with the scabs
so I cannot differentiate what
is mine and what to grasp
Where to shift my uneven weight
Which eye to keep open
The bliss of the thousandth tree
I climbed revealed what I can
see, all I have seen these
thousand times - a foundation that
secedes upon itself
Visible to my body but not my soul

"Brine"

You let me lay upon your supple breast
While she laid on mine
You let me sample all your fruit
While I pour her all my wine
You help her down off of my bed
That she involuntarily climbed
You tell me it will all be fine
That I must exit the brine
So I pound my chest and get undressed,
hide the meal under the wheels
off my errant bed so dead
Now I have no place to sleep,
with no food I weep
And contort these limbs
so I can't compete
with what will never be mine

"The Strangers"

Constantly trying to explain myself
While I cry, love, cast shadows and
give them names we've all heard before
The stranger smirks between gazes
into the eyes of the unknown,
quick on the draw, but too quickly drawn
In a rush to realize an archetype
from my devolution
The stranger's heart, encrusted in
ancient fires, paints embers
across its slave's eyeline
A ghost of a man who slew
himself decades ago, tamed by a shrew
The stranger cries like a sheep
whose wolf clothing is snowy white
camoflauged by the snowy white sheep
Another dead man awakened
then awakened again
How many times can he wake,
can he shake
off his names across sore eyes
He counts down while his
Strangers multiply in strength

"Sunny Days"

One sunny day of January
Fleeting winds foresaw the
Archetypical smell of Spring
A retrospective of time reversing
To when dew blankets me with everything new
One sunny day of January
I smelled the sun for the
First time since the sun prevailed
When everything was fresh and
new with residue
But in the autumn of it all
I am really where I may belong
A time when the frigidity numbs my
Senses for me with pain that
allows me to fear the sun
And so one later day in January
I shall choose myself not to breathe