Hyperborean

The world we live in
is a distorted projection,
this moment,
naught but a polaroid dream,
fires dancing at the edges,
ink collapsing in on itself.

These streets have melted
bad acid lust visions,
abandoned shopping cart homes,
deep inner-city arm infections
and other various tripping hazards.

Resolved, we residentially meander,
        keep our heads firmly fixed
        to glass floors shattering
                florescent,

the crunching of our boots
grace the bent forms of those beneath,
finger-painting cragged gravel surfaces
opaque with their pupils,
filling potholes with Sisyphean shortcomings.

Hammer-handed, delusional,
needle-minded and insecure,
we turn our heads towards the sun,
bleach the pale expanse of our sight.

We construct these hyperboreal steel escapes
ever higher,
high enough to puncture the heavens;
we know perfection does not lie naked,
pallid beside us
under thousand count satin blankets.

        Perfection does not lash
        morning's anemic figure
        with languid nine-tail eyes -
        punish her for violating
                a restraining order,
        crossing closed borders:

these heavy curtains
sole purpose: keeping strangers out

torn aside and bloodied
in this storm of light;
our clothes lay scattered
around the altar,

cast off and discarded
for the next life.

As Below, So Above

"Perfection," the dawn mused,
"perfection lies in the unreachable."

We stretch out the length of our bonds
like aroused house cats,
rattle the foundation till we loosen the bolts
just enough to overextend ourselves;

rub elevator gears with Vaseline,
arrange what's left of the dust
energetically and meticulously,
perfectly straight lines;

blow everything so high,
even steel buildings get nosebleeds.
So damn high we pierce the heavens,
rain the whole sky dry;

restart, humidify
and breathe deep the dreams
of a narcotic sleep.

Exalted, A Mouth Full of Flies

Our skin arid and cracking
the toll of dry conversations held over
three course dinners beneath mirrored ceilings
polished to focal points;

the crests of sand dunes, wasted days
and wasted praise of meaningless three ways
sprawling across the beaches
where no one sleeps and no one wakes
and nothing you do ever matters.

I remove a pack of gold, hotel-crest
trimmed crimson, from my match collection,
a footstool to grab a white shine jar of light
from the shelf of my shed,

light sticks of incense and watch as
the air smolders, warps, and burns;
hold the match stick still
as my thumbprint is branded glass.

Put a scent to darkness
and am forever marked by my awareness.

Thinking Makes It So

                Every message conceals
claustrophobic spirals trying to escape,
        an imprint, a unique tattoo
        accepted unto our being;

roll the heads down the stairs,
hold our daggers high;
we are nothing but a single instant,
a distorted projection of everything
and everyone we never loved.

Woe the forgotten man,
remembered only for being forgotten;
a pure, untainted, lobotomized canvas
decorated with spoiled milk.

        Preach to the tired, the poor,
        the huddled and the yearning!
'Cast aside Demons, my friend! Cast aside
                all spiritual rubbish!

Overturn the lottery ticket wheelbarrows,
drain pensions wasted in whiskey shots and
The American Dream!'

because we can.

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_{I dream of a world that does not exist.

I write about a world that does.

I am because I think I am.

I dream because I am not.}