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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, December 21, 2014

(124)

Towards the light
Stretched sweaty hands reach
Only just,
Falling through funnels
Of purple
Violet
Red
Acid clouds.

The Light shines dimly in memories of forsaken minds
Bubbling and pulsating
Through stretched bands of asymmetrical heart beats,
Fitted feet dance to rhythmic taps
On shiny oiled wooden floors-
Hollow cavities in pompous chests
That pump purifying scum,

In corrosion, leaves of withered winters find brotherhood
Trees, of wood gray with wisdom,
Dig roots deeper than sin,
Where nothing lives
Nothing leaves
Only clings and grips
And holds on till cold vacuum flows like heavy sighs,

In the narrowest corner of final nothingness
Sits and counts
A naked ugly baby demon called Truth
Who winks his eye like hammered nail
And buries a tiny drop of vitriolic venom in your soul
And laughs so hard the shell of cosmic bubble bursts
And rains shattered reasons and memories that made sense one day
But today only cut and bruise consciousness,

Till oozing out of spongy soft conscience,
Guilt stinks up the skull with green
And causes itching inside the skin
Ripped by maddened fingers feasting on fuming flesh,

There’s only the Soul left in all its naked fullness
Standing with head hanging
Before the naked ugly baby demon called Truth
Crying like a new born shame
While the Truth laughs,
Dismisses it all
And flies away.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

(123)

Withering slowly in my soul
Your voice is a distant echo
Reverberating through the walls of my universe
Casting spells
Causing hallucinations
Creating worlds,

Dark hair on slender heads
Wave in the wind
Like a dopey pendulum,
Screeching ravens
Cover the red sky with blackness
And raging madness,
Manicured fingers
And bloody knives
Fly in every direction
Murder the air
-Rigor mortis stillness,
Turquoise whispers
Flood grey streets
Of phobia cobblestones,
I pat choking dust out of my pockets
The jingle of loose forgotten smiles
Fills my psyche like church bells,
A million chanting sadhus
Force a rip in Brahma,
Out of cracks
Ether pours
As tiny drops of sweet poison
That turn into scrambling centipedes
Carrying eggs of impending disaster,
Purpleness seeps into fibery crevices
Between nerves and veins
Shooting waves of mushroom shaped
Clouds of golden euphoria
Through my skull
Pulling my hands high
Suspending me
In the centre of the nucleus of Totality
The only place where there is vacuum,

The vacuum that keeps your voice preserved.


Monday, December 1, 2014

DREAM JUNKIE


Undone.

The fruit of epochs of effort

Was negation.

Gravity of yearning eyes

Unable to pull the moon

Back into orbit,

Echoes carry no warmth of sighs

Truth loses ground to dreams

Bit by bit.



As the smoldering end mixed fuel and euphoria

A new dimension of possibilities took flight,

New paths riding silken breeze

Freed feet of bonds,

A journey through magical colorfulness

A land of clouds and waves and repeatedly rebooting time…



Altered vision alters convictions

Won victories are revisited

The purpose of it all defeated

Faltering steps are rerun

Everything

Undone.



Mucky reality rendered unbearable,

The only thing now left

Is to take another drag of illusions

To help you forget.