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
sanity
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.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.
