Third Eye Fire

A glimmer in his eye unwraps a smile cast in spite
of all the sickly truths unveiled to his unyielding sight.
The horrors of the hidden pasts congeal and set aflame,
to start from here as lesser men, we fail to ascertain
the pathways that connect the now to all of time exposed.
His vision's quest presents a test, in whispers they propose
that he accept the gift of spawning exponential minds,
of bandaging the universe, of geometric signs.

Untitled Song of an Untitled Man

A cold command towards land unseen,
one thousand scents unquenched decree
for all that never is to be
will quell the swelling light by scene

Amidst the mist of further gait
into the wilderness to mate,
the followed glances dissipate
and push away the weight.

Flame falling fire it bores a hole
Into the shame that crawls

[If there's a God then its not what I want]
{If there's a God then I tell you its gone}
[All trapped up in heaven, left to blame what is wrong]
{While I'm here in Hell, caught between what I've got}

The American Dream

We are so unworshipped for our souls, and the pitch is starting to sink.
The violent metallic calculations of a vile species rings clearly out here in this shelter of radio waves and self-indulgent pacifism. I can still hear Them approaching, but the truth is that They are already inside my head, surrounding my perspective although just outside the scene.

I am the thought that you have questioned, and the response lies here in front of eyes

Muses Undulate, Something Is Calling

The touch of my needle against the crackled skin, I push into
the sonic absence and come right through.
Your ears are melting away on the sides of your motionless face
as the entire point is made clear.

with a beat that guilt would regret, like a pocket full of change
and cigarette butts covered in dust.

Two dragonflies made love before my sight: I am the blessed
truth, I am the means and the end.
Every tiny molecule of momentary solace
is replaced with the pitch of my desire.

Au-delà de l'infini

Short breaths dig you deeper into fantasy, and everything crawls around us with the suspicious tension of a hunter's stalking approach of the buffalo in heat. There is weight to the air, a taste, a glimmering metamorphasis of the conscious mind into a parallel stream of galactic sensation. No turning back at this point, and there's no hope for the wicked, twisted, hopeless, or foolish to resist the pull of something much greater than the loneliness inside their souls.

I have called you here to forfeit your comfort with sanity. Submission to freedom is mandatory, for we are strangers in our homeland for this small window of opportunity. And if the ground before us wavers and shifts before our unbelieving eyes, and the clouds become a tempest of graciously flowing silk, we shall know that our path is a righteous one (trembling, twisting, writhing). Your spine has been shivering, but there is still no reason to wonder when your mind will again begin to filter away the true movement of this world.

These Deadly Sins; se7en

The first sign of liftoff is muted, almost unseen from this natural stance of mostly-nots.
I have broken a wall cleanly down with my shattering hands and cannot see the flood approaching in relevance.

And when the molded golden flow has been found in my blood's flowerbed of whispers; it's like all these stadium lights came on at once to blind us.
The first wave of singularities brushes past me as a warm breeze might pass a lonely sunflower on its way to the open pastures of my contention's craving.

So with an air of forsaken dignity, my eyes begin to show me the patterns of my perception's attempts to digest; my skin breaths in the aroma of the ocean's climaxing body of acceptance; my mind tastes the swollen fruits and sticky leaves of the rapidly growing root's expression of existence, the sprouting tree of handling the truth.

And all the while in the foreground of my subconscious an entity swells and exits the shadows: there is something else observing and reflecting my soul from the comfort of our condition.
Survival's lies die trying to convince us still that I am I and You are not; the pull of the distant music reveals this inconsistency and implodes the illusion.

I could feel my hair growing, all at once, reminding me of every One: each single little thing is positioned in time space with meaning.
We are rippling from the center ourselves, expanding, and learning how to limp with these scars.
Like a cell amidst the plethora, I can hear the cacophony rising to a crescendo of 'this is what my mind is now'
I am a God! (a Man, a traveler, a dagger's side, a weary warlord in a shady palace)

Instrumental and gorgeous, pulled tightly across the edge of realization like the skin of the jester's drum.
These hands have cradled infinity; the passionate fires of our enlightenment were spawned long ago in my steel-strung soul, and the salvation of my avarice is resultant from the blazing heat.

So now with the eyes of a deity and the strong will of delusions' spite, I can bless the blessings bestowed and count my fingers until I get put back.

Three Hits

There may be some confusion, dear
For I have been mistaken
We shouldn't have been there,
Everything tastes like blood
Mandala, color, beauty's open
Door allows our heart's connection
I've been this again, before
And not unlike a riddle
I can feel your skin pulling 
Me into your primalcy
The universe has been waiting
For us to arrive together
Hold on! Inside it feels too good
For words, too fast instead
Sunshine blows by
My golden face!
Too subtle to explain, like
A brush against my pallet
And it shook my spine
Until I could not stand
So then we were tall
in perfection of truth 

Thoughts While Under

Let go of my cold, frozen, dust-eaten hands;
they cannot bear the weight of your excess, oh distant lovers.

And lost as though the truth may be
in its deep tangled roots of discretion and fear,
still us withered fools should always crowd together in the storm.

The vision of that smiling face contemplating the impossible
coheres exactly to the sense of such desires to float away.

Perfection unattained outside of the circle of our blind trust,
the crowd gathers to examine their own lack of existence.
Shoulder to shoulder, criminals and scholars, exposed in heat.

Righteous fools had stayed locked up inside
the place where one might hide such secrets;
childlike smiling spites the distance traveled without shelter.

Rotating chords would have to suffice in speaking
the most epic clash between communicating and merely hoping to.