24th Hypnagogia A field of sunflowers is actually a field of suns that are tied off and bobbing like balloons. Messes To hell with the mirth and mess. Flee hypocrisy. The inn is the out. Too soon it too is dirt and distress. The scatter of trash nimbly mutates into a piercing childhood haunt, monster of false memories. Escape filth and faulty flashbacks. Uneasy freedom is found in bizarre streets.
To celebrate the longest night of the year, extra early to bed. Dec 21-22 2024 Please Sultry whispers wake me, "Please let me please you." Mild rage unfurls within to fill the shallow where sleep had been. He stays relentless in his quest until I bitterly confess, "The only way to please me is to let me sleep and lucid dream." Cheese Hum of hushed conversations is surround-sound, nonsensical chorus. Crinkles in the dark catch my ear. Turn. Kay and Jay slurp cheese slices straight off the wrappers. It seems odd until, on the wall, others crinkle and slurp just the same. Hunting Season A boggy field brings me home. "You need to dye your hair lighter. It's hunting season." a stranger tells from the road. I nod. Slog on. Then comes a yip, the slap of paws upon sodden lawn. I turn. Prep for fight or flight. Instead am riddled with delight by the sight of a little fox, ragged and romping, eyes sparking bright. Fearlessly it follows me into the very heart of home. I swear to keep him hidden from the hunt. Sudden Fair Supple solitude and the warm caress of a waning sunset are disrupted. Waves of children flood through the fence. Floating behind, like battered driftwood lumps, come their parents. A carnival erupts. Trapped on a teeter-totter the length of a house, cousin and I carefully lift and lower. Mid plank, perched like a mob of monkeys, a small group sits and sways. Yearn for loneliness of the stolen sunset. Black Days Flicker of hearing and singing Fell on Black Days. Gajeet Her songs, bitter or sweet, are melodious of voice and soul. But her spoken words are angular like tainted arrows ripping through their target hearts. It is agreed that she is evil. We guard our secret scars.
Updated 12-23-2024 at 08:03 PM by 101265
House Can't seem to clean it, this strange-shapen house of too many windows and too few doors. Wire and woven cords spill from shocked outlets. Attempt to untangle them but they dangle untamed. Blind eyes and broken hands tumble cross towel carpet floors. Glass rafters cackle then I too tumble away. The Show History is fake. Words are curses made to shine like hope. The shining smiles, distracting shows, absurdly long tresses of leaders, bleeders, attention needers, keep our eyes locked in glorious lies.
Who is she, tucked in her long and too-thin casket? Sit aside the mourners. Not a souls is known, not even my own, I think. A jittery man, red jumpsuit wrapped, plays broken keys, spews spoken hymns. Red backs into the bed. It tips. It rocks. The death mask within un-wrinkles with shock. Her brows twitch. Her lips narrow. Is she alive? Dead? Undead? The assembled are unbothered. Look back. Sleeper has shifted. She is mother, face convulsing, eyes rolling in REM rage. Stab of fear. Wash of revulsion. Seek solace from the mourners. They are unmoved. Breathe through the shock. Call upon cautious disbelief. This can't be real. Fumble through a reality check, "It's a dream. Of course it is. Just a dream. Just a dream." Look back. Mother contorts into grandmother. Heavily painted eyes rip open. She sits up. Face bitter. We lock eyes. She gives an unloving grin full of secrets, full of sin. My soul prickles with dread. The crowd are statues. "This is a dream!" I scream. Look back. Grandmother contorts into Yubaba. We stand suddenly face to face. "Give me a hug," she croaks through wrinkles, rippling wild. Recoil. Then, through the fear comes clambering some calm. I claim, "This is dream." Step toward the arisen. Fall into embrace. Frighteningly, absolute nothing inhabits her hold. Yubaba pulls away. She floats away. Red still croons fragmented tunes. The undead gives gifts to the statues still littered about. Slip into an icy, analytical space. "This is a dream. The walking dead. The waking dead. Re-awakening?"
Sailer They stab poles into earth bones. Hoist city sized swaths of fabric high. "We will right the world," they sing to simpering herds. In actuality, no rhyme or reason stands behind the helter-skelter sails. But the herds are pacified. In fraud they trust. Writer I am writing. Or perhaps righting the wrongs they wove across long, misleading lives. The hidden truths behind the tales will finally see the light.
Forked tongue splits a grin. Seeds of lies are sewn. Silence is safety. A sister and I Trip backward in time. We stroll our old halls. They are crowded, cold. Suddenly behold that I am birthday bare. I can't seem to care. This must be a dream. Reality Check. Yes! We are dreaming. No assertations. Instead, simply know and follow the flow of this cliche scene. Sister is frantic to find me attire. Allow her lead. Door to door to door. All locked. Floor to floor to floor. Half-cocked. Each turn sees us ignored. Suddenly he strides, dream within a dream. His eyes of twilight and his scarecrow grin cast magic across my lucid skin. His coat is offered. I accept. He goes his own way. His lingering scent leaves me wrapped in vulgar yearnings. But I am lucid. I know this trap. He is a sensual distraction. Reality check. Walk away. Sister wanders off to find some ride. I wait, dance half naked outside the institute of my youth. I'm dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Sister seems long gone. Bid the sun farewell. Pluck it from the sky. Admire its sharp shine in the hollow of my hand. Make a lucid wish. Now, blow out the sun. It lilts slowly away like a mess of milkweed fluff. Fall madly in love with its simple grace. Catch a luscious scent. Feel a hungry leer. Surge of temptation. I know he is near. "Who are we?" I ask. No answer. I spin. Fall flat on my back. Laughing, I stand, slip off the jacket, "Take it back? I am naked, not afraid." No answer. Toss the jacket onto rocks. Into silken grass I sprawl. Allow whatever will come, to come. I slip... sink... and fall.
18th Hamill Wall Wall is a canvas equally divided. In each rectangle he deftly splashes a smatter of hues, a scribble of line. His storyboard, complete after a short time. Can not decipher his spatters of soul. And he will not share his secret story by way of worthless words. He signs it simply, Mark. 19th Calenardhon I am medicine for a horse lord, worn. Naked, across night, he takes his fill. He spills into specter realms with the trilling of the dusk. Slumber now, to strength. White tree arises. Her sons dismount. Step past the whispers and spirits of stone. We speak of treaties and of tarnished thrones, of fires rekindled yet swift to wither. Where is medicine for our world's swift decay?
Updated 12-20-2024 at 02:57 PM by 101265
13th Hoof All the beasts with rubber hooves, fall flat as the dawn of our escape arises. 14th Cold Soul In the midst of a storm a nephew is born. Swaddled in secrets, he is hushed my way. He is mine to raise. But he can't be raised, cuddled or caressed, spoken to or stressed. He is a shimmer, like the foremost frost of a fatal winter soon to suffocate our world. I can do nothing but let him lie and leech what is left of the warmth from our lives. Grinner On wings of wild rose whips and patchwork slaps of flesh, it lurks in long shadows and laughs at our feeble steps. We can't find its face but its dagger grin glows, goes, glows again. Terrorize the trio who now rue their hunter ruse. It lurks, lingers, laughs at pretenders who claimed they could outwit pristine sin. Sun surrenders the sky. With naught but our wit and the wakening stars, we must somehow fight our way. A flicker of lucidity is swiftly screamed away.
Somewhere, up there, shines a life. Attempt ascension. The shadows snicker. Steps scream in protest. Am arrested by an empty embrace. "Where are you going?" the hinderer asks. "Don't know," I confess. Encirclement slips. "Do you love me still?" "I did and still do. But crave you? I can't," slips my tender rant. Shake off shadow. Back upwards. Back outwards. Back into bright fortune or dazzling doom to suffer strange sunsets and numinous moons.
Migration West is a scarlet wall. Dark shapes mount horizon, flocking, floating, flapping. And we, willingly blind to magnificent now, miss all the soaring signs. Geese of golden feather. Silver swans and herons hum their sacred hymns. Pterodactyls soar on pearlescent stingray wings. Even as I see them my eyes remain quite blind. Their dreamy reality soars straight over my mind. The Spark Her world is fluid blue, of sparking scales and flickering fins, of predators and hungering things. Despite the death above, below, beside, she sparkles while avoiding eyes. The Bereaved Roads are a clot of cars. My feet will find a way. Cringe through inching chaos, sing through this slow escape. A cousins home hunches, desolation heavy. They sit in silent pain bereft of wit or words, wrapped in sorrow and shade. No solace shines in me. Children swarm. Sip dark drink. Eat their fill of ant swarmed dates. And then he is present, he who had passed. He plays for us a song. Guitars shriek, lyrics slip from a host of haunted lips. I wish it otherwise but no solace shines in me. I leave.
Updated 12-09-2024 at 02:18 PM by 101265
A resistance of souls, wise and rising, encircle flame. All souls laid bare. Sift through clusters of confessions. Devise a way to reclaim light. Not through protest nor through fight but secretly through self empowerment. Offered a simple meal of milk and fruit, at first decline, I am disgusted by their gentle gambit. Then I partake, perhaps they're right. Passive progress is progress still?
She, of spectral grace and ethereal face, fills the shadows of my steps. A surge of sweet words, melodious inklings haunt the hollows of my heart. Turn to embrace her, to finally face her, am struck speechless by the light of her thin halo. Be still shuddering soul. Let her shimmer come and go. Nodded off earlier this evening. Heartless Adrift in dark upon the fringe of some swift dream, she may be dead. Disembodied fingertips claw deep into her naked chest, hold open the hollow part in which should rest a precious heart. From her chasm, shoots take shape, leaves unfurl and flowers shake. Fingers uproot all the striving life living in place of her nowhere heart. Tatters drift my way. Catch them. Take them. Run away. Before I can replant her soul the softest of sounds shakes. Awake.
Updated 12-08-2024 at 05:59 AM by 101265 (added a dream)
Push through a season's rage. Try see some secret entity that only takes its form when world is whipped by monstrous squalls. Mid quest, one hunter turns. His laughing breath heaves frostily, "There are no monsters here. Except the ones we bring... you see?" His spirit is a snarl. He lurches into screaming sleet. We hunt the hunter now through tempests of this deathless freeze.
Updated 12-07-2024 at 07:37 PM by 101265
Spiral Soft hills of softer moss roll into evermore. No beasts, trees, teeming seas, just we and eternity. He waits for some something. I yearn to explore. Step and search. Step and search. Spiral further away from he content to sit in his tranquil nowhere. Spiral. Search. Spiral. Search. Wander to a well in the heart of this green spell. What secrets lies beyond it or within? Awake A stampede of boys. A scatter of toys. The world is chaos cast. When worst is past, trip through wreckage of what were once my rooms. There, hunched in the gloom, an unadorned son with script scratched into his back. His eyes are a haze like far off horizons, overcast, laden with dusk. In silence we sit on each end of life, discerning the dreams that we are. Some comfort is found in our stretch of no sound, awake to each others memoir. Shining She says goodbye to the beasts in her mind and flays away the rags. Bare as the sun from the white pines she comes, falls into a sea of red flags. No eyes cast sight on the naked and bright shape of her soft, silent dance. I see the glimmer of her raw ghostly figure as it breezes my way by sheer chance. She whirls along to some intrinsic song only meant for the fresh and the free. Swiftly discover I desperately love her. Wish that her shining was me.
A morbidly beautiful experience last night. I am right but left for shadow. There shines no comfort from the moon. There spills no softness from the stars. But from the swell of the abyss his voice sings my most secret songs. Suddenly, the severed belongs, is soothed, stitched, deliciously shaped into a panther, shapeshifter starved for souls. We are power and poetry wrapped in realms of unlit lust. We hunger. We hunt. We feast on the bitter essence behind bones unrefined. We are one.
Updated 12-06-2024 at 03:18 PM by 101265