Strange Deep Blind

A strange kind of love and feeling swims through your eyes
like the doors of perception to a wide vast dominion
they open to your prize beyond the terror ground
a place for the rage where there are no broken hearts
white wash lies with just a taste for the truth
perfect taste of choice and meaningful looks in your eyes
blind to the gemstone alone we smile from a frown
should we stay or should we go while they circle round
we shout a rage so strong that knows no right or wrong
take a little piece of us into the dark middle ground.

That’s how it sometimes seems to to walk or to take
instead we stumble down to either side left or right
to love or to hate is to see the light while thrown in disgust
They speak of heroic feats that housed the fear forever
a howling wind changed the course and blew out of bounds
so sore are all the walls that bound us descending bleak and put upon
chew through your cheeks to wake up from you cerebral slumber
vases grow bigger to the eyes that snigger and despise
the wall grows taller up to doom thrown in disgust like shoes in a room
how we all fall to the worst and of course you say you don’t understand.

Your words write your fiction and your crooked hands scribe the lies
clearly now we tell your soul that all we say is all we can
we are nothing but hedonistic sin that learns to caste them in
while young girls with pretty fangs and slit crystal wrists
wait patiently for us to twist then look away like distant rains
water falls and honey dew days with us in black and blue rinsed eyes
gaze whistly at their slender thighs with a twist of shade to the right
spit at beelzebub on sight and go on loving for all to see living patiently
I find you in the morning after our dreams with cerbral signs
pour yourself into me like the sun is to the recently blind.

Lift me up high now and then get me out of your sphere within
keep me walking on air but never shout out with caution
hold your secret close because I hear everyone knows
the way it throws while it takes you in and spits you out
it spits you out with your desire to conquer and feel higher
follow and become ultra clean with mistakes that you mean
move the heart over and switch up the pace of your desire
look for what seems to be out of place and doesn’t quite seem
on and on it goes yeah like calling like a cold distant wind
as we walk through the zero hour we cut the thick and break the thin.

no sound to break and no moments clear when the doubts are crystal clear
crashing hard into the secret wind that knows the way it twists and turns
changing colour and spinning yarns the way it leaves you dry
it cuts you up and takes you high by the way it’s painted bright gold
is it honey or is it gold by the way it throws about and spits you out
that special kind of you would like the sun to shine through the blinds
lift me up and get us out and keep us walking but never shout
it’s okay because it goes this way while the line is thin and twists away
the Ocean is deep and the sea is vast alway asking how and why that’s me
your ocean heart is clothed in respect and sweet caresses unfurl my uneasy mind.

Imagine a set of steps easily climbed with the power of pride and plasticity of mind
where there lies a round table and the table stands for the power of our success
respect the sign with intelligence so cold your glass heart is surface deep
dip and swell in my sphere and you’ll find that deep caress open my uneasy mind
wave then dive in like the damp heart and the sun holds me so very cold
beyond the power fists the Ocean hearts are healing all of the uneasy minds
dive in with us and cling to the rock and always know that I’m quickly waiting
your heart is hard and you think your legs hurt because you smell of aching sweet success
a cerebral supernova would like anything to stop the pain from your fingers screaming
standing naked in the sun without a leather whose pain needs to wash, and let go the fear.

Take the steps to the other side with up-turned razors as the air is thick with karma
the sutra of a long way down listens to a boy that’s a long way down from heaven’s gate
heaven’s gate has no steps and the steps before you are to the tower of misplaced pride
the devil lied with drive up to the highest point where our lives and souls are saved
when the lives on the table stand for power, success and respect will dissolve steps
mothers love it so they say through sad eyed pearls and dropped lips
their old eyes skim with increasing lids and a tear falls as she describes
glances pierce through writer men as they spoke hushed and frailing hips
approaching death with a yearning heart with pride and no despise
hot tears flow as she recounts her favorite worded token about the Dharma.

Forgive me please for hurting you so and don’t again go away heartbroken no
wise owl tones with velvet lies crush her velvet lining and calls the fools
they write on your wall with a forked tongue about you and your secret life
dead hands will change the plot and will make your loving sound like snakes
you were never really that hot and hot tears flow as she revises and recounts
wondering aimlessly while walking down a long and winding grey paved street
breaths from your only friend warm the chattering others surrounding you
going out again and again just to be seen and laugh with a gas new crowd
tell yourself lies while buttoning up a new red shirt meant to allure
twenty years of doing this ritual just the same into the dark night glow.

Day after day with your preset mind you wake up with a preset find
with no self control you decide to wake and call the empty Roll Call
the socialites who are mortified yet see fear as their next surprise
you’re happy with nothing but the bitter sweet F.A. of the night
believing that they’re alive and real but if asked you’re not sure
they have nothing to yell except the words of a clashing rhyme
calmed down and out of sync so even real sounds like zero time
to a brain stuck in the lip sync Roll’ there is no wrong or right
forget your preset mind and Roll with us to a very welcomed fall
the night is endless with you in it with or without your mind.

As the day grows older the moon appears as if in a two way mirror
in a fire side mirror a distant walker hears the call to do good deeds
the moon and the sun feel okay like partners in a dualistic light
separating his reflecting with one beam of light and one dark
hearing this confusion wanes with no need to ask for more wealth
one thing more is all we need and now we go into the night
he feels the same as a cool hot summers climb through the weeds
the voice comes with no shame and bad deeds for which he must pay
walking the line as the day grows older, heavy-weighed and pierced
the moon reflects his heart and another image hits seven veils of the mind

The walker looks at his days and knows not how they came to pass
one day you will be the one to say I’m sick of all of this empty fun
if your faith is strong it means you are no longer being led astray
you can see that all the light comes straight from our shimmering sun
soon we will be with the one that will show when the lights turn green
I want to get near so I can be clear that soon I will merge with the one
there is no time for this requited love in which I thirst and yearn for
don’t be shy and don’t get caught with the world and its thoughts
I’m not asking for obtuse idol worship or lazy sleazy thoughts
walk with me now into the dark light and there we will repast.

The Sister of Sleep thought of him as a strange and good looking man
darkened eyes are hidden from view in empty puddles of shallow hue
views on death spread like two anecdotal tales reclining and declining
death is the surname of sleep but the surname is unknown to us
disclose in public these opinions of the tales that hold the key
sleep is end of daily life and a small practice exercise in death
not every brother and sister are equally close while holding onto nothing
giving into the enemy within with a small exercise in submission
a wide and vast dominion will open your eyes to your awaiting prize
this is a known terror ground and place for the misplaced rage.

Searching through the wasteland we see a blazing white light
soaring birds now hunt with hunger and gripped the thirsty brow
win the battle with me that is clearly and painfully wafer thin
between the devil’s teeth is a line which can never repeat
push me in and take me toward the signified as the subject is taught
a war within a war within a head and heart for us to newly begin
bemused we flinch with no easy work for the invited we loath and shirk
how will you feel when all you have and all that you own are gone
your only true friend dances above you in the mindful firmament
the blood of the prophets flow out of reach from their aching speech.

Transmogrification of ‘Deep’ by Peter Murphy


Sassy Shackled Ankels

This world of social engineering is painfully engaging
the cup seems dried with dregs of vacant bitterness
voices sewn shut and stained cheeks with tearing
let the crowd stick to oval holes of emptiness
a blind mole-like mentality blindly hurting.

Sweeter than you think of a unique visionary
blazing forests don’t follow the damp leader
cane flailings dance with a lacklustre morality
feelings come deeper and swim with a sinker
embrace the differently downtrodden eternally.

The moments you touch with reaching velvet silken hands
hidden places aching that only you can make ache that way
the omega love/lust connection is fraught with hour sands
bruising kisses of the evening hardness then soft by day
feeding addictions of desire with mutually planned plans.

Meeting the needs in between that of want and strife
there’s a razor thin line between sweetened and sweet
hair pulling passion with a lie we both share in rife
committed and adulterous while still in mourning to meet
being entwined in a perfect union with a lover of life.

Shackled ankles are always ready to be slightly unbound
baking cookies in negligee and silk scarves flowing
be sweet and rough and change my face to being unfrowned
transparency in a flawed interlude of internal glowing
tongue twisted lips tied to your singing sultry sound.

A modicum of “difference” makes you more understanding
a prescience believed singing and shouting it out loud
a really lived beatitude life of raw nude existing
a cloud of your conscience seeing the facebook crowd
a quirky chaser brazenly defiant in the act of living.

The broken and battered are a kindred disjointed folk
just like being there the yokes of a never-ending pain
years of tears peppered with split seconds of pseudo hope
flowing syllabic evolutions are going to once again regain
who knows but for now just write while you continue to choke.

Knowing that perhaps the best work is laying latent
kicking rocks is gone forever replaced with shallow breath
take a sick pleasure in knowing that few get my intent
see me like they used to before my poetic birth and death
lurking in the locked box with stripped poems of discontent.

Square pegs shining in a semi-final round of proclivity
prelude to alliterative experience of intimate assonance
dancing with words one at a time or maybe up to twenty
plenty of rhetoric spewed with silent cognitive dissonance
words take on a life of their own with each one worth a penny.

A visage is smeared in the angst of tumultuous torrent
heckled profusely for being hated and once again shamed
no one cares and they can’t see the trees or the forest
adoration of writing their way out of ever being gamed
the things you’re beaten for are usually your favourite.

Transmogrification of three poems by Amy Gabrial

Pharmacide; Philosophy : Art : Physics

Positively Genuine Conception

The society occupies the second floor,
the scents followed me up to the entrance.
The stairs below lead to the front door,
the woman at the desk full of kind pretense.

Fanatical about manners you never ask for more,
you have my permission to do your best friend.
The someone who’s there to kill you isn’t a total boor,
apologies offered graciously never meant to offend.

I’ll be with you very shortly in the next waiting area,
invite me to make myself comfortable then return.
Just the right age, slim, fit and dressed with hysteria,
casual drop-dead elegance let grandmothers burn.

Take your time quickly of course there’s no rush made,
it would not serve the purpose to say so.
Laying is like business stock in the detective trade,
manners will get you much farther than go.

I knew perfectly well that with immediate social reasons,
that would come with flipping and demanding instant information.
The pretext of purity for membership shouldn’t rush seasons,
the topic of the day is how you might pick up more lasting elation.

By listening patiently to whatever is being said,
you’re never really lying and always think it through.
It would be cooler to be part of your club instead,
horrible and very shocking is what they say about you.

Genders and articles there’s no such thing as correct,
as well as with the right order to speak more frequently.
People love language that scores immediate respect,
tell me your price of membership then ask about my frequency.

Bend over the desk as innocently as possible,
give us a moment to notice your perfectly cut hair.
Prospects of horizontal socializing are delightful,
pleasure combined with excursion will take you there.

Words can be translated as loss or pity the martyr,
mourning in a way that’s telling the emotional sounds.
Give me your full attention and make things harder,
make sure I have the right verbs tenses and pronouns.

Dead beat poets and people with red notebooks and pens,
a discerning eye it’s agreed is a beautiful work of perception.
Allow yourself the pleasure of looking at each others sins,
write down something that’s like a positively genuine conception.

Transmogrified from a short story by P. Segal

Just Let Go the Blue

She sucked in her teeth and grabbed her bag,
followed me out to the car to go all of the way,
commenting on how she thought me as being a fag,
I never told her anything because it’s my birthday,
for my present she bosses me around with a gag.

She had on her shoulders a young good head,
putting out for me not needed but she wanted to,
cozening up to me instead of a you is all she said,
plenty of other Sweet Boy fish in the ocean blue,
I too know how to make ghosts disappear dead.

I watched you sipping sideways sitting at the bar,
you were something like me and just couldn’t see it,
short neat hair and deep set eyes brooding from afar,
that made women look and do more than they admit,
hoping they are mistaken and act like a porn star.

Inside the club the dimmed down lights were velvet red,
everything happens more quickly than you expected it to,
lock the doors and stand guard then fill your guns with lead,
it doesn’t matter running ahead while warning what to do,
can’t order out for the time and place once we have fled.

The camera blocks all front shots of the hands and faces,
send them running back where standard intimidation belongs,
some stare at us instead refusing to hide in the dark places,
you saw me and didn’t turn away with rights and wrongs,
you weren’t alone on the dance floor looking for traces.

Standing protectively in the V of your bare slim elegant legs,
when it reaches your mouth it starts off low like a burning growl,
shifting your arms tighter you saw me knowing that she begs,
when burning hits your throught it gets louder like a howl,
arms wound around my neck pulling against the dregs.

The sound of fingers being pried one by one off a rock,
coming loose from the gut with burning and ripping pain,
a stuck-coming-loose-sound from my trembling inside clock,
you body wrenching loosely shaking and coming in vein,
the bureau speakers sing the sounds of my wet jock.

With sounds heard coming from labor rooms the house is shaking,
this ass-kicking world expects to be trembling with you my only goal,
it’s me trembling now and free falling arms out like a bird and stretching,
swimming away from the surface towards the bottom of the blue hole,
what’s coming next is darker still with my bluedark shadow following.

The cave hole narrows as we swim toward the blue brightness,
you get there first and turn and wave to me to stroke your breast,
kicking freestyle through the swell of the water and its blue deepness,
I still feel you everywhere when you’ve disappeared like the rest,
your laugh is inside my every molecule making me act clueless.

When I come with you there every part of my body is slack,
the shaking over and done with I can now hear your breathing,
feeling the life drumming underneath I let myself think and fall back,
placing your heart over my chest and sway with the sheathing,
without thinking or trying you inhaled and made me your snack.

Transmogrified from a short story by Helen Klonaris

Troubled Dream Reams

Keystroking every day from nine to five,
our desk faces the door of dreams,
unpractical inferior superiors derive,
rolls of dreaming troubles by the reams.

Pinpointing dream troubles for free is our business,
mouse feet wake early to watch the world run,
the world is sitting by a hag-face and panics,
whore-faceless letters awake and undone.

Whenever there is panic i am the assistant,
sounds so-end-so says while they seldom get around,
when we’re done you’ll be an out-patient,
setting records steadily up and down never to be found.

Dream by dream and educating that rare character,
structured self analysis is provided for every member,
dream makers are not dream stoppers and much fairer,
exploiters of dreams are conquered by the rare explainer.

Makers of dreams are lovers as well with health and happiness,
dreams themselves are lonely as well and forever will forsake in stacks of reams,
reams of dreams for the record books my mind did caress,
your calling is to memorize the reams and scribe them down in a bible of dreams.

Your elevator is raising the red roof of my three a.m. nights,
trees from the far side flares torching flattened and rockabying,
pushy invisible witches push hunks of stone until they are lights,
east of the river in the ocean though the ream island city is sleeping.

You are tight as a taught string and nervy curves curve like a violin,
the blue sky begins to hue and we’re ready become a sleep receiver,
thoughts of all those dream weavers and the reams of all the sin,
sleeping in my dreams with me comes with a week long fever.

Page by page and dream by dream my Intake books fatten,
eight down the bookshelves of the cabinet in the stall,
passage doors to the doctor with their cubicles open.
narrow passage running parallel to the main hall,

Detecting interlopers who come in their dreams,
concerned single dreamers choose their own time of death,
ball-bear dreaming every night backless with no seams,
growing bigger and bigger till it’s size won’t allow another breath.

Certain dreamers get ether and cut out the kid tonsils,
rollers of a cotton mill will keep fighting for your life scenes,
never alone when you think you are standing in the stills,
when dreams are now dreamt they power all of the machines.

Cagey dreamers won’t go on the subway or the elevators,
wander now and to the dreaming mill in the fourth floor tent,
my dream passing while puffing up the unswept stone stairs,
your one and only dream of dreams is great and self-transparent.

Stretching omnidirectionaly my vision sees the heavy hanging shores,
looking down from the glass belly doors of and invisible helicopter,
deep and dark masses moving and heaving like real dragons roars,
dwelling in caves with raw cooked meat and dancing wheels around a fire.

Enormous isn’t enough for you unless it comes with the word strange,
dream about panic long enough your feet and hands shrivel away,
looking really closely the sun shrinks to the size of an orange,
only chillier than performing in the last ice filled stage play.

Soft rooms where you can float and dream of dreaming,
great original floaters actually float on their pointless backs,
running minds at night trickle into the gutter and begin sparkling,
drinking blue waters of hope in the middle of barbed fenced tracks.

Ttransparency aside the smoke naturally stinks from what dreams have left,
sogging for centuries over what you think about one night of dream props,
one person in a city and a mere pinprick on the map of the space world,
multiply the number of dreamless nights where there were no stops.

Ideas have meaning and I’m not the mathematically dreaming type,
splitting the number of dreams during my snake swarming night,
dead bodies dreaming of an unfinished paper cutting glass eyed sight,
blowfish embryos with evil-toothed messages bobbing with bottle might.

The sound of their ring and the look of their vows make backwash commonplace,
spiderwebs are now part of our new human vision to turn facing aside forever,
a grain of dirt has more beauty than our frequently misshaped & silly face,
give us a thick sip of darkened blue water and to the last of every lover.

Seeping in among everything else and resolving with aetherqueer power,
opaque and ubiquitous is the transparent bog of liquid thinking madness,
people lie with their worst dreams then toss themselves off the tower,

brotherhood wakes and thinks herself utterly apart and never undresses.


Transmogrified from “Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams” by Sylvia Plath,

Recoiling Digital Philosophy


Increase your essential compression and mix the steady quiet with elemental peaks that bevel,
obscure emotional power is filled with sonic detail that leaves listeners un-movingly strange,
self-protecting ears of compressed volume blasts is how we’re taking it up to the top level,
evolutionarily sophisticated minds pay attention to exciting music with proper noise range.

If you are truly seeking sensory excitement and avoid the typical pop-culture tiresome fatigue,
add variation to your rhythm and let’s do something warm and dynamic in a big empty space,
‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor‘ sounds better than it sounds without the intrigue,
one-dimensional noise sung by frozen monkeys bombards Stalkers turning into a Prey face.

The downward download spiral Methods are momentarily Drifting away a vitally hidden tether,
reverberating squashed reproductions of highs & lows that move transience with a reasonable crunch,
selected enhancement always backfires and leave us in need of a much stronger effect taken further,
un-satisfyingly brittle results leave us feeling indistinct and hollow seeking experience with no punch.

The digital landscape is changing everything and quality is sacrificed at the alter of convenience hunger,
inferior modes of sound operations lead pop-culture through a single isled store for a ‘must have’ choice,
time will bring us into the battle that has already begun to improve the way we look and listen younger,
significant shifts in listening methods reveal the truthful ramifications of hiding the subtle Missing Piece.

Blindly return to a high quality of art that embraces the wonderful technology of science,
equitable distribution for the art creators and theirs friends who want go with them,
an old fashioned Bloodline panders to no one and seeks hand crafted reliance,
quality costs and it’s well worth it for beautifully created art and some sin.

Unusually huge at any time can lead to a long life of creative non-conformity,
we struggle to be heard like millions of others who wear the label of ordinary,
success does not come with big digits and a dose of commercial popularity,
background helps but it’s what’s inside that keep them coming back weary.

Mainstream anything hasn’t improved nature in a way that’s recognized,
paper back magazines have little to minimal impact other than amusement,
the plug in drug is duller than ever and MTV has become marginalized,
society is gleening to be seen or heard on a television advertisement.

Become your own way to escape the turmoil of a subsidized production,
expensively formatted anything are there for those who desire quality,
fundamental elements are coughed up qualitatively in our reduction,
always take the bold approach and invest in yourself seriously.

The shifting doldrums of marketplace delusions is nothing new to me,
making forsaken art at Strange Hours is all we know as boss,
reinforced cynical views towards the injustice of our reality,
so many of us long lost in the marginal mêlée of dross.

Pragmatic belief in a major company remains to be seen,
the Faith Healer inside downloads a Liquid mutation,
our legs are chained with the survival of barely being,
exert positive pressure and avoid blind stagnation.

Selected while Drifting and recently for the very first time the old band played and he got to see,
the first listening experience of a special Shunt recording needs to be heard as it’s intend to be,
once you craft 1+2 and Hydrolically begin to understand the full pleasure of a quality toil,
you’ll discover springs at the core of all art and the art of Alan Wilder is called Recoil.

Transmogrified from a 2008 article by Alan Wilder; ‘Music For The Masses – I think not

Alan Wilder of Depeche Mode in San Francisco, ...

Image via Wikipedia

Tar Baby Tapping

Tap Tap
I found you!

Looking for Flies
Laughing at the Tap Tap
Your case can be broken!

The sunlight sent inside of life shifts
sending forth tiny sweet blues and bees blooms
the feathers were all but picked down to the roots
Their dried lilac moss drifted through it’s new life

that had gathered looking to steal the tar baby‘s lump of Sun
Skipped silently whistling to the small woodpecker child tap tap tap
As for what was deemed insignificant time and again standing space
it’s head stood bowed open so it could stand beneath in gazed hover falls on

hammer to see what other house joined in and case they hold out at casing.
once upset child sneaked inside stands on crevices tapping out balanced solid mass
that tap tap bird had all but passed out with the soon be covered hollow oasis silly thing!
As a Navel tap tap child that raises it’s head and falls up amongst wonders to tap tap tap fluff

The broken doors had closed out the insects creeping of the cracks who gave shelter to the tar baby blackbird
Surrounded by a strange megalithic softly covered hammer that stands ‘and dusts weathering rainbows at weeds
Intrigued by the somnambulistic echo the grubs skipped forward to become fertile by imaginings nesting unearthed
all ignored remnants forming deep traditional presence which had stood for so long before moving beneath cracks

The hardened tar baby child figure stood by to process a meadow of birds
at the cracked egg shell of life brought to you by the sound shine stood to roost
Decomposed lazy birds singing for occasional visitors they had shat upon
as a ruminating tar baby mists had taken their faeces smells out on the winds

So there came the missing tar baby butterflies
and smashed windows left in concrete waste cased in fluff
The top head case child chicks crying for the crumbles
off to the weeping seasons with giggles in hand

The blackbird flees surprised
Tapping for the tar baby child
Then raised her hammer of haunts
One day as the sun came down

They, however, can never escape themselves…..
You are free now!
Tap tap tap
Tap tap


Transmogrified from a poem by Lucy J. Hughes

Trois Sublime Gazes

The deadly ready silence of a threesome state
sitting at the table with two in a dampening seat
plop down and play with red edibles on the plate
minds dance to the sound of squishy red wet meat
waiting for someone to try and go for check mate

looks can curb anything that might need to be said at all
with nothing left to say the time to talk is gone to stay
replace nerves with a tension that glitters like a disco ball
hands brush and pulses rush knowing today is the day
clouds clearing up the moods just for us like the dew fall

jump and pour some in the glasses and set it on the table top
staring past the lean look to avoid a gaze of the enticing kind
she looks with her and sees desire in the eyes that can’t stop
when it’s right it only takes one look with openness of the mind
guessing is over and the story’s happening in a seductive plot

avoid the eyes to keep safe the surprise with searing chances
what happens now depends on casting of the suggestive gaze
across the table the phase begins with primping and prances
finished with their feed they lick through their strawberry haze
two tigresses uncaged with a lion purring with heated glances

candy dipped remembrances of a winking secret bedroom gesture
eyes meet as red lips rim the tender fruit of thinking the same how
shaking thoughts are asking if there is anything else left to measure
like those sweet berries it is time to pick up and taste them right now
thrills run through greedily sucking eyes and swallows with a murmur

the sugar bowl is now empty and the energy has been consumed
tongues begin to lick and flick off the watching and looking away
the ease of the mouth to lead astray the eyes is easily presumed
staring back at me with ecstatic shocks of ecstasy those eyes say
hands clench and glands quench as an ineluctable desire is loomed

the seductive spell has been cast and it is broken within framed time
sensation races across three flush faces and flesh from itchy fingertips
chomping on the fleshly fruit they move their hairs right next to mine
hollowing throats with waggling fingers outline our synchronized hips
pressing mounds of sex throw senses into an overload of the sublime.


Transmogrified from a story by Mona Arizona

Intoxicated Eternal Oleoresins

I’m enveloped by the emptiness of your absence because our thoughts give me needed nourishment

You swing into my daytime fantasies like our raw wet meat is dreaming in an eternal aether conflict from afar

Between my heart and the world is a bridge of burning silk as the gargoyle flies from the monument

Oleoresins of conifers down poppies and chain inks then hidden and clandestine he enters the window ajar

Noiselessly he effortlessly glides over me with the shadows of the night ensuring everything is properly dead

My mind traces his outline of horror with seduction and like incandescent asters they pierce me as they do you

The echoes of our soft and inanimate embraces spread as magnets and remain imprinted in the unmade bed

Tangled skeins of magical air with green lighted eyes and like huge bat wings they obscure the sleepy blue

His eyes and his sighs of crystal drag along in our all frayed and split up memory while giving this and that choices

From the corners of darkness on hooved tiptoes they advance with a thousand silent whispers from goblin hordes

Fragments of soft mosaics and fuzzy childhood smells creep into our staggering and broken dance of voices

Caught in our web of dreams I wake up from the dream while still in the dreams and sense discrepancies of chords

A whispered feeling on my skin leaves me more than immobile in the cement garden of anxiety

All creatures sleep with thoughts suspended in the immensity of long silence with the right places

Astonishment seizes my insides and out for a moment with a sea of pale lunar craters in zero gravity

Wandering comet streaks of iridescent light that is expanding over time in the deepening of the spaces

Our sun has died with explosion and scattered the heat of a supernova that creates a universe of liquidity

I am now intoxicated within the depth of our faces.



Transmogrified from a poem by Marzia Puzkin; by request