Afraid

Hyper-ventilations in hyper-contextualized
Cyber spaces escaping non-realities built
Without abutments, abut around Romanesque
Forms, where esquires, at their own behest,
Did form wordless words, feasting on escargot
Behind a crystallized desk at a kind of exquisite bureau,
Shaking (it’s in a non-risqué sense),
When the righteously beautimous withdrew
From their vision, fearfully they
Pressed away at those transfigured
Buttons, as though hopeful it would do
Something, as they had, perhaps, always
Most often been.

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Never Before

Presuppositions of what could have been
Swapped to the supposedly supposed to be
Supposing our “purposefully denied” postulancies
Postulated that freakish endeavors no longer belonged to us,
However blame was repurposed to seem as though
Loss was not loss within the choices they made.

Wherein loss was determinative in the posthumously volitive,
We’d stopped posing as though we were above all of it,
When the gravity of it all suddenly hit us, a bit too hard.

Difficulties

Speckled spectacled angel fishes
Levitating faery leprechauns in red
Gelatin holograms of flavored plum essences
Flying with black plasma birds of micro galaxies
Hovering drops of rainbow rains and
Brightly colored moth kites, alive, or (insert preferred phantasies).

Digitized realities translated into ecstatic computations of abnormalities
Sensitized to altered states of euphoric subsistencies;
Grander designs in glorious novelties of ease filled tranquilities
Whisked away by risks
Transmogrified into deleted codes of ethereal beauties
Within vortices of lifetime’s misnumbered clocks.

Emptied pockets of meager profferings
Belittled brittle esteems,
Prescribed to bottled up fantasies,
Pawned off, traded inside passivities
For close proximities within frozen
Ticking tocks; a side effect: enacted slurred idiocies.

Dawdling over ilks of spilt shattered vials,
Liquefied greys sprayed across sacred grounds,
“How blasphemous! Despairingly erroneous!”, they’d exclaim,
Desecrating exhilaratingly breathtaking scenes
By way of pointing at foolishly held paganistic dreams;
Believed, albeit briefly.

Those posthumous moments of difficulties.


Prevalent

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.

Red

A weary wanderer gazes
At the scape that marks,
In permanence, the divisions
Of the land, sky, and sea.

The ship tips in sways
While the bow lobs
In varied feats.

Waters swirl and surge,
While the ship jerks
In unsteady tempoed rocks.

He listens to them slop
And swish against the hull.
Placing his right hand
On metals protesting in oscillation,
Turns and tosses
A floatation device.

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.”

Empty

In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.

I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted

Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?

 

 

 

Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
In each of those misstroked hatchings.

But it was.