the golden cotton of caramal lust muddles the eyes
thirsty for ripeness and fulfillement
we seize the time for the siestas or the toil
some in half-baked somnambulism
some loving the warm green of freckled tree flesh
mosaic of star and planet
Oh God I love the heat days but it sometimes is not loved at all
a fact of summer perhaps.
pickles, tok of mango stuff
crust like shapes green and organge
leaf and fire
stuns the tongue
the effect like two drives
one of childhood and other of misfit days
a pinch of abyss in a void
is like a concentrated shape of a bubble| an empty place
feathered by a gibberish
in a environ of ennui and ample boredom
fixated on the winey-bile
are crooked limbs typing crooked lies
all the time finding faults
with people who only adhere to simple beliefs
there are people put on the table
minimized, atomized, radicalized, compromised
debtors, creditors, bankers, lawyers
all these money-can-bring-happiness-like professions
or people who use that philosophy for their practice
are all after you; your life is like a . decimal unit
crammed into fiscal years of binary blindnesses
I want just people to be able to breathe
taxation on life is now a monopoly market.▬
I
am
isolated.
I
am
kind
of
an
outcast…
you
see
me
then
don’t
like
melting
ice.
Are we a society of outcasts or an outcasted society?
We love variety but we suck at maintaining good old orders
funny, how we label only to demonize and let free actual criminals
at times I feel we live in a jester’s court
for there the mime is told to recite
the judge sits behind bars
the pickpocket transcribes
and the joker is on the king’s seat
with citizens on trial
and the monarchy as jury
imperialism is radical with change
radical at staying the same.▬
my mind craves adventure
its been calloused by too much comfort
seeing the doozy dumpling of sun
and the marble effects of the moon
are but synthetic trophies to my vision
I can eat them by sight yet when I affix broader networks
I get elated because there in that dense map
beneath the superficial sheen lie freckled flesh, flexible flesh, floundering flesh
that cartographers would indeed enjoy.
The sensuous can bond with the intellectual sans the cheap armours
we can love with thrill and lust with piety if we erase those smooth contours that bait
desperation and disaster; we need feed-well our silences and outbursts.
I know birds in gilded cages can sing more
but the sky to them is an unklnown planet
to sing and fly in a 90° or 360° of some equinox
is better I think than playing tic-tac-to on parallel lines.▬
bonds of gossamers are like constellations
waiting to be watched under scopes or naked eyes
with a study of aesthetics than mere classifications
hoping that God’s Creations will be loved —
I opened up the door of a basement
it looked akin to the attic
I guess this is is the kind of conversation
roots have with branches
soil and rocks
clouds and air
need the bark
needs to mix and mate —
I saw seeds that reminded me of nests
all trying to breathe and grow with some symmetry
all unique and inherited; a quasi-pattern, a quasi-harmony as God intended
you see boulders are like flutes they sing too
with voices wide and far
and boulders are like shrubs
they can be picked and scattered
I guess that is the bond between bones and feathers
they rustle like dews and branches signifying seasons
and can become sepia-gray underneath smoothness and pressure
we can only name some stars as we can only name some spiders.▬
