Human Delusion

His beliefs were like a fireworks display of the mind. All fizzle and cackle in the moonlight dreams of what never was.  Delusions that circumnavigating facts would get you reality, which was not enough. Having achieved the goal, she’d feel finished.

There was here and there was over there: The picnic in the singing time. Dreams of a place you could so casually remember as if it was perfect when it wasn’t. Why couldn’t the sunshine just be sunshine? Sometimes I feel I have to put pen to paper to feel as though I can write at all.  To breathe and

Trade in my toys and Rapunzel’s and live amongst the branches where people already abide and try to swallow up what they have to say without spitting it out.  Love is a promise nobody ever made. I catch images and now just taste them for them-selves before they evaporate forever, I can’t hang onto what I value the most anymore, it has to go for a walk and never come back. It’s disappearance a gesture that something meant something at all.

Night and Day

Hiding in your dreams, buried in the avalanche of collapsed stress rose up your half-self without its other part, which had always been like amber wrapped around an ant. Time slowed down and said hello and took away your clothes. Hideout and seek, they make memories out of daylight

The under-lit world was a place to see things clearly: Asleep in your undisturbed room emotions just rise to the surface. Fastened and bound into the syntax of your own sleep; little pieces of there and here and nowhere came gliding through. Your personality always felt sandwiched in, pressed between the walls of memory closing in around the present tense. Now under your dreams you at least feel free. Is your bed an incubator of madness? Old people and a conversation with a Bus Driver where you actually felt connected. Words pour through your mind as if they weren’t pushed. As if you were growing time between your ears like an antiquated hobby, it followed smoking. Shame had no place so things moved smoothly: A tidy honesty, not the stupid drunk explosions to be exposed elsewhere 48 hours later. Violins and Dreams, sadness curdled up to be a potion that only your head could up with and swallow; this is the speedway to ecstasy   

  

I leave no fingerprints here. They wont find me. I’m on the bedrock, the backbone, the memory gland or whatever the real thing is called. At the bottom of my consciousness I can finally breathe, the oxygen of my uninterrupted head, but enough fishing, it's time to wake up