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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Sunday, May 1, 2011


Eyelids, tuned to the seductive psychedelic riffs of Pink Floyd’s guitar,
Open rather reluctantly
And shut immediately,
Taking in the dreamy scene of dopey waves
Of blue blankets and cream ceiling and a drunk fan,
Rising and falling without rhythm,
Mixing without much effort into the drugged air that has lost its sense of miscibility.
The so usual depressing deja vu,
So abhorred,
So feared,
So droolingly welcomed.

Deep blue.
Almost black.
Silky viscous smoke.
Intoxicating cocktail of visions
Concocted in a loony brain’s cauldron of unhindered imagination.
Rising rising rising,
Losing form into a churning mass of mesmerized clouds
That rain their delicious drops of sweet poison
That seeps quickly underground
Straight to the stiff roots
That have held firm so long the swaying, unstable structure
On which banks
The complete whole of entirety.

This corroded contraption manages to work sometimes-
Bright-white, split-second sparks of fits and starts
In a world of deep dark dismal disappointment.
Never meant to last
Yet expected to run until a distant forever.