“Why can’t I remember
If my dreams had been in color?”
She grumbles, smashing microlattice
Refractory ceramic monkey figures
Unto monochromatic domed ceilings,
Bordered by smaller orange colored
Semi domes jeweled in an elegance;
Dissimilar, but breathtaking nonetheless.
Thinking to himself, through
Antiquated lulling hydrangea
Narrows, he contemplates a bluff,
“This must be the reduced reason
A difference in deference in anti
Logics took form in this bijou.”
Umbilic moments captured in a room.
Monochromat man, staring, seated in a car, bides.
“Kinder swatches on quilts guiltily recount
Ordinances stitched in an encumbrance”
“’Reliances in relationships validated
Existences in distances, cornered by coroners.’
I swore, I heard them say sassily in
An extended ending, unsurmised.”
“Signs point to yes. Have faith in shortened ends.”
She grimly pled.
Temporary tiny sentiences timely disembark
Hovering miniature spaceship snails
Zealously waddling along zigzag pathways,
Planting abstract poison berry jellies
Inside temperate energy fields,
When wonder filled natives couldn’t
Soundly justify whether or not,
It had been them who had placed them there.
X’d out magical cognitive dissonances
Dress and redress, in simple deference;
Haunting wounds within paradoxes in a dramaturgy.
Traces of sociological patterns upturned
In acute sociopathic reasonings
Terrified unseasoned psychotic psychopathics
Struggling with psychosomatics, infuriated
Esoterics from an overload of psychosemantics
In a state of psychosis, question origins of
Niceties, logically deducing semantics,
Unscrambling factors in every perceivable word.
Linear lasers weave
Two and fro, running
On blank static pages
Where they’d fly
Then they’d lie,
With endings in what
They could surmise,
Qualities in humor and creativity.
She babbles on about altruisms,
God only knows what she means.
Her emotional discord–discarded.
Her hands release tied up red cords,
Keeping records of scratched up memories.
Her fingers, pointedly pointing at her,
While pointed at me, positioned
Like a hand gun, she screams,
“Put your mother fuckin’ hands up,
Ya fucking dumb cunts.”
She swiftly grabs and twists her wrists
Behind her, as she whispers,
“We won’t let you get away with
This. We won’t let you guilt trip us
With your warped idealistic dreams.”
Do you hear its underlying lament singing
Less on the diminutive end, pining
For someone that was hated more often
Then loved, seemingly in created obligations
To remain aligned where its lessons
Meant to stay and skip over the hints
That had proven that the stinted
Which would inevitably
Be considered what was indubitably
Dubbed to be graciously called