Quiet in my velvet dreams
gleaming with beauty queens
ultraviolet veneers
under crystal clear chandeliers

Awake. Never quite getting the reckoning.
Instead you're beckoning
me to your charade of promise
but I'm stuck in the forest
where you're my Charon
following me to the limestone,
dragging me back to the gates
and I know you mean well, but it doesn't resonate.

I've abandoned all hope and entered
Feeling like I've surrendered
What is it I will remember
when we get to November?
Biting my arm
in moments of harm
or
braiding my hair
with you just being unaware?

It all seems silly
like a grand facade really
where I can't see why anyone
can buy into becoming a chameleon.
Why take it so serious
when it just feels delirious?
What is it we're racing to
at the end, it's the same view.
Who is it for?
I really must make sure.

Waiting for my Virgil
To guide me through the hurdles.
He's no where to be seen
as I choke on my amphetamines.

Its one of those days again
Nothing's right
Nothing's ever fine
Every little thing exists to annoy
Every other I want to destroy
This never ending tunnel
With darker twists ahead
Am I living the nightmare?
Or stuck in this absurd reality?

My days are filled with a sense of nostalgia
for those that haven't happened yet and
longing for days gone by.

Bouyed by an effervescent iridescence
anchored to the shore of
absurd accusations
vital to self-realizations manifesting
into a festering static buzzing
                                                    to
                                                        no
                                                            end.

This dog of a sun
And how it remains
As it stains the hole
Of larklights in blue
Obstinate nuns in the hold
As they fold on forever

What a blessing, Sue
To see vicious sounds
In the halls of commotion
Now we surround
With our teeth, amber glow
As it sows a piece of forever

Fever, fever honey
You know what begets
The regret that you feel
Dance in the garret
Now, I hear in my fear
The hounds of forever

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow sound
Of sweet repetition
Where pain is not mentioned
Hold your lover sweet
And you will fall, complete

See, hear, taste that sibilance eye
I shan't cry, nor state why
For freedom, despite its size
Will fail me in time

Wallace, come here
See the face I faithfully
Made in the image of you
I hope you find
The beauty that you
Have lost to old forever

Goddess, be soft
Know you're not known
By the people that hurt you
Stay in your loft
And let the lamp resound
The drums of forever

Don't fall to greed
By planning for fates
That are best left forgotten
Knowledge will wait
Unlike the sun or the moon
For they deny forever

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow wound
Of sweet repetition
Where pain is not mentioned
Hold your lover sweet
And you will fall, complete

Strenuous, this malarkey eye
Waning clock in tentative sky
Do not take life for granted
Even when not wanted

Strong Héloise
Lay upon me
With your shackled aroma
Let it release
And scatter away
In your piercing gaze of forever

Héloise, come to me, see
That I haven't stopped
My attempts to capture you
On a damp canvas
Of trickling hues
That dare to uproot forever

I'll start with your nose
And give you a pose
That mimics your stature
Rock in your chair
As shadows deface
Your grace, lasting and tethered

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow wound
A sophomore face
With sweet ******'s gaze
These gibbous hours cease
As the day finds peace

Your fur shambles so
Your fingers corrode
As the deluge below
Now blows us into forever

Be quick. Gagging on blood.
Quickly, before the flood.
Brain is winding up.

Overflow

Crowbar eyes prying
Concrete wings flying
I am a passerby
Unaware of it all
A mathematician crawls on dad
A Cockney is ***** and filled with sand
Liquid sound
An accountant sings
Like the world is caving in
It must be
I feel it in my toes
Two muted trumpeter swans
Feed on a lake of rice
And I need no anger
To notice such beauty
Nor pain
For I feel it all
In equal amounts, incessantly

Truth will always win
though the arrogant seem tall.
The man who says there is no cliff
will be the first to fall.

The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

Farnham sat on the fringes of education, sweating his mind. He observed a charlatan wearing a paper hat in the corner of the centre and proclaimed,
“You will be beautiful in my dreams”
And thus felt at ease. It is a frustratingly slow day in March, as the mister’s heart began to loosen in the literal subjectivity. The sun shone with the dominion of a mad titan, yet at Farnham’s request, acquiesced to a simmer. “The class is finished. you will start again in sorrow, some time tomorrow” were the words that Farnham heard, which duly prompted him to click his heels towards the doorway with great ebullience. What is the day to him, but a measurement? A tightrope, so it seems. He lingered like an unwanted scent to his locker, having dropped all but one of his cents in his classmates’ pockets. The locker opened and greeted him with a lifeless moan. He stuffed it full of his insides and began to feel like a muted songbird.
“Where will I find my voice?”, Farnham wondered aloud, “Who will lend me the right to sing with immense volition?”
He can fly with unbridled confidence yet cannot convey its feeling in a universal medium.Such a poor state. Walking up to the most aloof passerby, “Point your finger! Point it, and I will follow in good faith and stringed navigation!” The unremarkable fellow adhered in mock comprehension, fearing for her wallet. To the northern wing she pointed, where lingering soulmates lied in the garden square of Bohemian export. Farnham, capriciously fearing impermanence, flew like a bird yoked to a noose. The tiles of ivory institution felt uneven below his head as he sunk into the cacophonous call of propriety, where his streams were superimposed onto innocent scholars. In an attempt to escape liability, he eyed a man twice his stature and importance and duly clambered upon his back, steering him by the ears.
“Fellow man, I am looking for something unattainable, but don’t peg me as a defeatist! It is akin to that of enlightenment, which I’m sure you have dreaded over for a time. I have extrapolated the knowledge we have attained so far, and have concluded that attunement is inevitable, and thus applicable to life. You will take me there, to that answer, and in return, I promise to feed you tangerines from the Proverbial Garden. I will love you for your duty and kiss your feet. Please, come with me.”
Moments passed. An answer was being formed, and Farnham waited patiently, wanting to catch it like a fisherman sailor. Then, reply.
“I should take you for a fool, were you not so soaked in this sort of significance. Let us journey, and journey well”. Farnham caressed the ears of his companion and pulled forwards.