A personal poem dealing with lost love |
Standing in the vast, empty sky, the angels of Victorian aviation drop sandbags to buoy themselves to nosebleed altitudes, twisting limbs to pull taut ropes and fire balloons: An image pixilated on a green glass screen bombarded by a glowing electron rain. Standing in the vast, empty room, I watch a bygone world of ascending adventurers whose dreams have weeded over with creeping ivy. The angels of deceased days rise into infinite space. I stand in infinite dusk. Phantoms flow Through my netted nerves, sun-drenched dry. Sun-drenched dust-devils dance on tombs of pink stucco. My fingers clutch the folds of perfumed silk. Your unforgotten fragrance fires my nostrils and visions of endless times dance like flickering flame-shades. And I stare into the punctuating pupils of the tiger’s smoldering face. And I don’t wish to rule over a vacant plain and watch spirits flutter like spent smoke, leaving ashes… leaving concrete glaciers… leaving glass great cats… leaving subtle white-wash of cracked stucco starbursts… King of dented desires. A piece of plaster lodges in my swollen skull and my dismal, dry veins ice over like dying sunlight on pavement--- shiny silencio spending the night in a standstill downbeat. The future in the ice-aging present pulled by the salty, wicked winds. Blown mind and blown soul. Good stories are written by The packaged night children, wrapped in butcher paper and glacial dreams. Your unforgotten fragrance graces my nostrils and visions of a bygone world beyond these shrouded windows play like moonlit shadow puppets, telling tales untold in the waking wealth of dawn. A piece of puzzle lodges in my swollen skull and the upbeat and the downbeat tickle tattoos of shattered silencio, spending the skins of worn warriors. Spending the souls of dried poets. Your unforgotten fragrance fills my nostrils and visions of a bygone world |