Wings

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(Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee a Second Before Awakening, by Salvador Dali)

 

Sometimes there is a place,

an opening in the clouds

we shoot up into,

demanding God’s presence.

 

Within every cloud

you search the sky,

rip the sun apart,

tear through supposed

storms meant to kill,

but for your angels.

 

We revert to our innocence

while searching for

what is left of our

intact souls.

 

Take me to that path,

if not to God,

then to the perfect silence

of the Elysian Fields

where those without sin

walk a profound nothing

to drown

like a dying religion.

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To Live

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Hieronymus Bosch

I will meet you

somewhere between the

theta waves

and this wounded refusal

to die.

 

But you have to be there,

truly be there

amidst the graves

and the killing laughter which

revels in your

every death.

 

The thefts,

and the burns

broadcast

a sudden madness,

your premeditated

deterioration.

 

Only when I washed up

on these brinks,

did I choke

on the tombs

of those killers.

 

The next storm

has already been planned.

 

I will be here

if you need me

with nothing left

to be taken.

 

OCD

 

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Be warned,

there is something

in the woods

unheard of,

guns loaded,

unborn.

 

Ritualistic death

among the

Ayahuasca.

 

I went there

to save you

from burning

and was

buried alive.

 

 

Between Worlds

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(Image from Playbuzz)

 

They had us begging for our lives/ pin dolled/ hot electrical impulse pokers/ burning intermittent torture/ some developed dissociative disorders/ ingested pills/ lived the double life of denial/ some left/ to escape/ the invisible touch/ of enslavement./

It may have been/ a revolution/ a movement/ to bring humans back/ to their original sin/ back from the deadening purification/ of mind/ body/ soul/ megalomania/ who is your leader/ your false prophet/ I always wondered/ who laid the plans/ set the traps/ where is this devil/ playing God/ I obsessively sought/ the hunter/not the Shepard/ leading this flock./

Reality was constructed/ from the evaporating dew/ of anarchy/ we were raped and pillaged/ on one level or another/ in the name of a million moral crusades/ looted/ streaming riots/ live/ my beating heart/ only a calculation/ a mere statistic./

I feel more gathering/ like storms/ layered like dying flowers/ diaspora tides/ in a drop of water/ tempest winds/ in every exhale/ and I need it/ to feel something unguarded/ after feeling nothing/ elapsing/ agony/ creating worlds/ from a few words/ dying to feel something/ resembling life./

The Darker Side of Light

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(Christopher Nevinson, Paris, LA NUIT, 1919)

 

There is a box.

Within the box

is a storm.

 

My ears ring

to the sound

of penance.

 

They sent me off

with the lunatics

and bringers

of death.

 

Back into

my mother’s womb,

I lit the flame

of hope.

 

To make sense

of the unfathomable-

constellations.