Thursday, 29 December 2011

Saturation of the Wild and Meaningful.

I've seen the best of the nihilists dance to this

when stripes of unknown strata dances like it thinks it matters

I'll dress you up vibrantly

in erratic sleeping patterns.

I'll unzip the seams of seas and see the world behind the scenes with all the greenness of it's flesh

This room is the only place where skies exists,

where backyard Baudrillards in the tender grip of repetition,

tend to the breasts of suns and the crests

of lunar lungs

that breathe elliptically, rotating mystically

around the residue of rib cages

and realities.

We fluctuate at the rate of imagery,

dispensed by the dress sense of the sun

and now we've undone

the belt of Saturn to find nothing

but a press stud

that imitates the moon.

Fully informed in diagonal fashions

phantasmagoric supermarkets awaken

into connotations of time slip romantic notions

where impossibly, in Paris

Ginsberg resonantly

reads to appease us.

What shall we do with all these rearrangements of constellations

that represent nothing but perplexing Perspex complexions

waiting for that golden poem of somewhere

to bare all

and fall harmoniously into common expression.

Whilst other ideas move gently,

my hair grows subconsciously,

like the universe.

We sign our names onto the backs of clouds in consent of the next sunrise.

The dawn brings prophecies of self apocalypse

hidden within the corners of horizon's lips

I can destroy the world with a stranger's breath


is the length

of a cigarette.

You place the edges of our dreams onto memory foam pillows

to smooth out the corners of our forgetfulness.

The shape of beauty is worthwhile

only when dada discourse turns oak trees into intellect.

Now the slim fit azure blue of oceans belong to someone else's legs.

We'll roll our words discretely

into maxims of shallow analysis

with wishes to burn them, into vibrating strings

and photograph them in high winds.

But what of the mouths that solemnly lay

upon electronic gestalts in constant drift

where evolution sits

growing tired and old

of recurring ideas once cherished.

I'm already too aware of revolutionaries.

I hover just above the logos

and drape your shirt, around the sun

so we will awaken tomorrow, already clothed

with shadows lapping at our toes.

By 3 o'clock the world was dead,

kind synchronized synonyms alleviated our tender egos.

We leapt from the depths of silhouettes

and your smile disappeared with the eclipse.

I juxtaposed it with a kiss and painted symbols on our hands

to give the evening, meaning.

So what do we do when we realise

that the sky is a colour tv dreaming rhythmically

of high rise buildings with poor views of blue?

By night,

we can collide the moon with velvet skirt

arouse her mouth, or stroke her inner arm until

the hairs of profound kingdoms rise

casting shadows on her thighs.
There are no oceans here

but I can recite a landscape if you like?

with hand adorn pencil in vast

panoramic temporal masterpiece, lungs crack,

cacophony of cloud precipitate

compositions of birth, in midst of hand swept depth,

crisp, mandalic you and me,

painting consciousness of contented winds

now poet can draw breath with pen, and breathe.

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