One Day To Wince

Would the dirty cloud hang there,

A little longer if I left?

And do you think that it can grow,

That the excerpts that escape the mass,

Making their way to other shores,

To talk about the debauched show,

Could also follow me,

Into my suitcase?

When I leave,

Will I think about the limpid air at home in China?

How many homes I have now!

The one that beams from afar, always,

Away from me or in costume,

Decked out in the finery,

I could never stand.

Anyway,

The cloud!

Do I love it?

Will I miss it?

Does death speak to me more than life?

My heart seems to clamber for some clutter,

Emotional and the extraneous things,

That would make me angry,

In the moment, scream.

My voice,

A whisper in a locked room,

Hopping against the walls,

And in that moment,

Brandishing vicious tiny limbs,

No man could ever fear.

 

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You, On Another World

What is it like stepping off the edge of the world?

How does it feel to dip your toes in untouched waters?

What about the stories and the fables that we’ve heard, 

Or the things that we have talked sbout for a year?

What is a disagreement disagreed artificially?

Will I measure my life by stories and by diary entrys?

I hope not. 

Will I measure my life by how I measured up to you, 

And your ideas about me? 

Will I strive to prove you right as you always are?

Will I strive to avoid being the blot upon your memory?

Yes, I will. 

Oceanising My Mind

Woke up with a tie-died mind, 

Stepped off the edge, 

And felt invigorated all the way from bed to floor, 

Ran my hand through my hair, 

Slipped a couple bands around my wrist, 

For safety and stability

Throughout this wicked day,

This day in which will transpire

Something. 

While I horse around in the bathroom, 

Singing through my teeth

And toothbrush and toothpaste, 

About your feeling, 

The feeling of knowing you, 

Or being within your orb, 

The wonderland you inhabit, 

Like a rabbit’s burrow, 

Or a genie’s lamp,

Saturated inside by the sap

From Elysian Fields, 

By starlit discussions on natural beauty,

By smog gathering over the tumult

Of a city at peace with its changeable mass, 

And the moveable feast of wines,

Of fruit, 

Of fleeing salad concoctions, 

And water that is in essence, 

Life. 

Life, 

Like the only life that I want anymore, 

The life within your orb.  

Hue

​Little birds I haven’t seen for

The longest time, 

Squabble at the periphery, 

Of this peaceful little square of life, 

Retained, and reinvigorated, 

Over and over again.

The history is dwarfed, 

In the context of the nature, 

In the confines of the greenery, 

And falling slates, 

Peeling paint, 

Who else could live here but something free, 

Like a bird, 

The bird, 

The thing I long to be.

Anticipation, Always…

Licking sand, 

And eating grains, 

These granules, 

Are so everyday. 

I just want to chow down on you, 

Dip my teeth into substance again, 

Living off the land is great, 

But the vistas that begin so powerful, 

Fade faster than you. 

When I touch you, 

When I taste you, 

Then the smog of everyday, 

Will fall like rain from the sky, 

‘Pon us and everything we can see. 

Paradise Lost

I had a vision, 

That felt like more than a shadow, 

I’m sure it had dimensions, 

Larger than what it came to be. 

Once we made cement, 

And sat the poor thing within the wet rubble, 

Sat back and stared in sycophancy, 

For a dream that felt so real for you and me, 

Turning on the pavement, 

Even as the cement turned to stone, 

Turning like a drug addict, 

Absolutely, 

Possessed by this one. 

And when the moment came to grasp, 

And pull at the then immovable thing, 

We slipped upon the weight of permanacy, 

The sorry thing that is reality, 

And fell into a chasm, 

Of plundered dreams, 

Obsessive things, 

Calling wildly and in vein, 

For someone to help us out. 

Requiem For Nature

While larking in the water, 

My hand hit something heavy, 

A fleshy piece of unused meat, 

A waste of fuel, 

Or a waste of life, 

Depending on your point of view. 

A fish afloat on its back, 

Without cause it seemed, 

The body all embraced by curling skin, 

And both eyes wide in horror. 

I looked, 

And then we looked, 

And my hands went to my body, 

My own dying skin, 

Mind’s image of this river, 

Taken by the muddy water, 

And its death rewarding vices. 

I slipped like a falling stone, 

Across the length that I had waded in, 

And grasped the shore beneath my feet again, 

Half in horror of the thing I had done, 

Lapsed into a mausoleum, 

Thinking only of a dream, 

To be with nature for a while, 

What death defying thing am I, 

To play gleeful with a corpse like that.