We plunge into an overwhelming sea;
Lungs filling up in pain filled gasping pleas;
Listlessly sinking in unforeseeable sequences;
Choleric monsoon’s exonerated in these artifices.
Numbing depths of aggrieving soul fragments of
Lambent nights consumed by certainties in
The visually perceived.



Where would we be
If we’d never noticed the vaporous rippling surface
Or crossed from this timeline to the other dimension.
If we had not overcome our fear of triple point waters
Or mistimed the opening from the moon’s reflection.

Was the cost
Of the chase
Of no import,
Do these letters
Fail to support
Time as unwasted
For a muse now
Tempered across
Alternating realities.

While the effluvium
Of her solidity escapes
Into wells of hopes that lie
In dormant chases
Of the moon’s reflection.

Dramatic Hand Brushes

Thunderously tumultuous rumbles whizzed in pours.
We listened to those sounds while our fingers softly crossed.
Sprinkled after showers sparkled in spectrumed ranges,
Lying on curvatures of ridged polycarbonate awnings,
You ridded off rigidly with ragged towel like cloth
Against wistful pleas of please don’t’s
As traces of those droplets evaporated.

I’d try recreating pieces
With tubular glitters
Unable to recapture
The beauty we saw.

Diminishing images
Of compositions;
Lost expressions
Of those vibrancies.

I heard you say
“Try anyway.”

But you left that day

And took
My fucking glitter.

“Try anyway.”


God could keep his purpose.
He could take every
Expounding great nothing,
Every exonerating. restraining,
Distortion in beauty’s anamorphosis,
Evolutionary or mutation,
He could take these things
And shove it up his omniscient ass.

Oh yes,
It’s purpose.
But this purpose
Can go fuck itself.

Embraced in Dream Beds

I sit
With the light switches
Turned down.
I count
For every 1.5 seconds.
I watch my eyes slowly adjust
As blackness fades
Just a little
From vision
As I listen
To the music
You listened to
Last night
And I feel
I almost feel
Like you are close
Like I could touch.
Like you said once
In moving images
Of us
In dream beds.

Colored Insanity

In a single dimension
Where aberrant tones
Of veiled language suspended reality
To a strangely splendid universe,
To enigmatic hypothermic convulsions,
Where extraterrestrial excrements
Laid in lines of converted veneration,
Where lucid intent lied in fluttering
Optically disillusioned scaled wings,
A place where poisoned golden apples
Trailed to nonexistent goddesses,
She flails, seething, boiling in aortic pulsations.
Unfathomable actions hurl the blind and weary
To the unforeseeable depths of ruptured loss,
As disproportionate notions swirl
In psychedelic contours
Of coloured insanity.

Hay Strand Memoirs

In fitful frenzy, instinctively trying
To grasp at predetermined disappearances
While knowing every location
Her soul resided in
From perception.

A gust of wind knocks over
A dwindling light from an oil lamp
Igniting hay strand memoirs,
Warping hazes of should have been
Euphoric possible divisions
To impending impossibilities,
Distort contorting images
In flickering reservoirs
Of flaming memories
Slickly licking, creeping
Up a load bearing beam.
Crackling filaments disperse,
Gritting embers singe and then
Helplessly drift in stagnant atmospheric pressure
While another woven strand
Burns and turns to dust.