Automatic Destruction (we are the Star of our own Show)

Lay down the rails of iron

   Gut the land for coal

Pray the Locomotion

   Does not run past the Goal—

Collect the latent ions

   From the atmosphere

Hope the Monster relies on

   Intentions in the clear—

Arrange the zero, & the one

   Into intricate patterns

Watch these figure out the Gun

   And Drown us in our taverns—

Automation made the current Way

   Producing entertainment—

Asleep, we go about our day

   Oblivious to our Confinement—

If only we had a little more time

   We could Sew up our mistakes

And See Beyond this little rhyme

   The future, & the stakes—

The Fire we started—probably too soon—

   Still Smoulders far Below—

Prometheus's Grave has been Consumed—

   To the Movies!—

          Off!—

                    we Go!—

The Mad Dream

 

            The Mad Dream

We are Building an Empire of Rest—

Deep, Dark, Peaceful & Sweet—

                      ...Sleep—

We've Lived—

through the Torrential Torments of Rimaud—

We've Seen the Divine Revelations of Blake—

We Have the Perception of Dickinson,

with the Patience of Death itself.

We Grieve, Bathe, and Take

from the Disgusting & Depraved world of Baudelaire—

Through the Disappointment & Anger 

of Bukowski,—we have Risen—

as what flows through our Veins

is no longer Blood,

but Acid.

We have Materialized Ephemeral Eternities—

into the Ethereal Spectrum of Dream.

Every Night we Live, and Live Again—

and every Morning we Desire—

More.—

Thus we Embody Nietzsche's Word—

The Eternal Recurrence is our Reality—

Chaotic and Beautiful, where there is no Pressure

to Perform nor Give—

but are Allowed to Observe—Freely—

without Judgement—

to Take, without Guilt—

to Forget, without Regret—

and to Remember, by Choice—

To not be in Control—but Allow—

That is the Highest Power...

So Pleasurable is this Acceptance—

our eyes stay closed in Ecstasy—

our minds Tuned only, to The Cosmic Soul—

now Singing loudly, in the Choir 

of the Underlying Matrix

of Everything.

The Cosmic Beast backs down—

its tail between its legs

at the Sound of our Song.

And as we pick only the Richest Fruit—

from the Forest of Everlasting Love—

from the Temporal Dying Tree—

and from the Transtemporal Temple—

they Thank us

     for our Desire

          to Overcome—

  

Castle In The Sky (epitaph for physical presence)

I'm building myself a Castle in the Sky

  Away from the Noise, closer to The Mind—

Above Grey Land, up in Harlequin Cloud

  Where Thoughts are Free to scream out loud—

Where a Haunted Mind, and a Hunted Heart

  Can Safely Indulge in their Boundless Art—

Where Leisure Releases Beauty from Chain

  And with every new Moon, it happens Again!—

A Cathedral of Words built in Hurricane Winds

  Where the largest of Birds will become our Friends

A Funeral for the World—we'll host and invite

  Absolutely no one, purely out of Spite!

And Words will Spill out, Consuming the Dance Floor

  The Pen never stopping,—always asking for More!

The Wings of our Friends spread wide and gliding—

  Eyes fully Open, and Dreams out of Hiding—

At the close of each evening, we'll cheers "once more!"

  From this, we shall never, tire nor bore!

Every Day—Renewed, and every Night—Imbued

  With the Magical Tactics of Stratospheric Hues.

  

                  Snapshot

An Image Holds one thousand Words

  Behind its Paper Fiction—

Within its Walls, one hundred Worlds

  Hide, from Gross Depiction.

A Glimpse of these, one may be Gifted

  Should one be Chosen to snap

A Shot at Seizing—All—at Once—

  A Chasm, Reduced to Crack—

If Layers Waiting, in Silent Suspension

  And Galaxies—Dimensions—Behind

Are Briefly Seen, & Given Attention—

  Attacked!—by an Enemy of Time.

  

The Perversion of Poetry is a Punishable Crime

  Its Abnormalities rather Disturbing

As we Converse throughout our Lives—

  Saying, Essentially, Nothing—

Through Internal fits of Anger—Tired—

  We Scorn—our Inabilities

To Communicate our Soul—Desires

  Into the Void—Infinity—

It Stares us Down and Mocks our Frown—

  It Laughs when we are Crying—

And All along—The Poet's Silence

  Makes All Aware—It's Trying—

Diplomacy,—too Ordinary—

  And Peripheral Conversation—

Small-talk in the Smallest Town

  Is the Poet's Fornication—

As Buried Words from Underneath

  Surface—Without Dictation—

These—that Speak—as we—Cannot—

  Arrest—and Demand Attention—

In Silent Prison—we can Finally See—

  Ourselves—In the Broken Glass—

We Torch ourselves in our own Hell—

  Praying—it doesn't Last—

And in the Intervals—In-between—

  We Learn to Love—Ourselves—

And All the things—we Never Say—

  Ring Loud—as Morning Bells.