Breakdown Pt. 3

Hapless trumpets from mechanic bulls dozing, were a
Perception devoid of haptic feedback that was so oddly
Within scapes of timelessness, nonetheless; ways of earthy
Yards enticingly expanding sequin symbolisms by organic formulas.

Brightly, she observes, “Can you feel the weight? Stimuli
Receptors are picking up their magnificence on resonance feeds.”
“They’re dangerous. Can’t have too much caution in significance.”
Wearily, he postulates, brushing away imagined consequences.
“Dissociative responses should be displayed on your cornea.”
“Yes, they’re there. But their temperament classification is neutral.”

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Lately I’ve been feeling like I’m going to burst
From how badly I want that person, just this
Disgusting whispering painful longing to
To have someone to myself, so badly
Wanting to gladly stare into her moody amber eyes,
To know everything about her, I’m this sorry mess of
Foaming thoughts and images of applicable if’s and but’s and I’ve kept
Seeing the same distant scenarios I’ve learned
Careening throughout this lifetime, I guess, that lessen
In intensity, but truthfully, it happens mostly because she would
Keep changing her mind so many times,
Whenever I’d plug in her phone number, it was
Really annoying, it drove me nuts,
Cos’ it seemed like you just enjoyed fucking around
With mine so much,
Too much,
That it shows me
That she just
That she only wants
That she doesn’t give a shit if I go crazy.

So much
That
These words
Just keep pouring out
Like diarrhea.

Worst Case

Immersed alive into tumultous wells
Of real mint colored mana pots; brimming
With frivolous imperceivable bubbles,
Into the bones they soak. Supped, it
Incurred due passions to fruition,
Affecting aspects of neuroplasticity.

Appropriated branches stooped down low;
A kind of deafening simile
In an unrealistic loose setting for when
I caught you there, heedlessly, deeply submerged,
You, my princess, told me intensively
Of your misfortunate gladness to be
In my gorgeous rippling arms,

Right when you lost your grip and fell into this tub.
Allocators on mountainous peaks discomfortingly rub,
Yet they speak simultanously, “You haven’t seen thundering.”

Our State

Reigning through astral planes,
Labradorite arrow heads
Directly mined from morpho mines, of
Plastered shafts with augmented porcelains
Painted in glossy black mediums, and
Fletchings of ebony razor blades of
Plastic vane extensions, conjoined.

Labradorescences flashing iridescent
Blues, violets, pinks and golds at
Submicroscopic spheres. While
Spectrolite scarcities dramatically
Reel in those dimensionalities.

Theories of quick sand spaces
Moving in unthinkable speeds,
We pray on those points above;
Lights seen through semiopaques;
Muted mustards and darkened grays,
While he contorts our realties.


Chasing Crazies

Onslaughts of treacherous rains on fords
Enter into orifices of insidious grey plumes.
Errs of swelling gutters spilling over edges,
Erroneous gushes of sawdering hushes
Emitting from meticulously gathered pools
Upon roofs under iterated statuaries;
Yanked out weeds from garden beds.

This

She smoothes down her shirt,
Hands clenched on tattered
Threads begging for alms in
The middle of the expressway
Where blurs of motor vehicles
Pass by in celerity, as imminent
Gossamer webs of sordidity
From forsaken reticences within
Contorted visions by liaisons
Whimsically snapped threads in volition.

Denouements acting as reminders of
Glitches in this system.

What We Chose

Reflections of mangled confidences
In incandescent words
Of inevitable losses
Those who sought redemption
From repudiated horrors
Of untimely hours
In muted reveries;
Vaporized voices of intangibilities.

Airtight metal doors locked;
Unresponsive to patterned codes
Of likely misconstrued rhetorics;
Of queasily relinquished prides;
In quizzical encumbrances
In unrequited diminishing vortices.

Anthropomorphically weighed physics
Of bleakly styled truths
Or exquisitely chiseled fallacies.
Where comforted comorbidities
Of mythological redundancies
And existential deities,
Salve.

Spouting extrications of love’s yearnings
Hopelessly behind those locked doors
In layered inquiries of reality, prophecies
And connected scales of measured precisions
Of ethically disapproved pursuits;
Pierced valves of barely perceived incisions.

Here’s a secret,
Morality is whatever I wanted it to be.