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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 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.


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