Roused to lie down and watch the ceiling

A broken collar bone
monochromatic minaret
an explosive laughter
a toothpick.

Pulsating pain
that colors night with
anxious splashes
of many dying stars.

A phantom craving,
for misdeed.
A wanton burning
on the skin.

And as you crawl into the shell
of ancient skull.
in a squirm of fear,
of ‘our lady’ twisted beak of lust.

That will extract your soul,
from your disintegrating body, –
a blind hungry maggot
that just learned it all.

a sentient

I almost failed to remember
my obligation to see myself
withdrawing from my mental exile
in a self induced coma.

a State of the Union
Pharaoh’s Dance.

All buses are sponsored
and waiting under the bridge
away from the Eye of the Beholder
away from the Thunderstorm of Hail and Fire.

The path to the dystopian future
is laid out through the parting of mind.

(Sea of Reeds)

Don’t jest and perform miracles
while stuck in limbo
frozen in salto mortale
over abyss of self awareness.

reflection #9

​some don’t know
how to lose.

some, –
how to win.

in both cases
they will eventually go to sleep
angry.

and then they will ignore their own reflection
in the bathroom mirror,
because they are too angry to look
at someone.

and they will have bad dreams.
and will cry through the night.

in the morning they will be too ashamed
to look at their own reflection, again.

and eventually
they’ll forget how do they look.

yes, indeed.

some wrong schematics

My intentions and my goings
are on the constant opposite paths.

I thought they’ll schematically look like wings,
but they looked more like cockroach antennas,
arching back.

I thought they’ll annihilate,
when they’ll collide behind, —
lifting me up to the Celestial Spheres.

Yet, they didn’t, —
they are only dangling like a court-jester hat.

Ding-Dong.

the inanity (part #6)

a vision of the delirious sprockets operator:
Alice falling down the rabbit hole;
raining girls,
raining paratroopers,
buttons of the various colors,
burning candles falling in slo-mo.

throbbing cavities, —
inevitable coital incontinence.

“thunder!”
“lightning!”

violating geometry of your soul.
a second hand nightmares for sale:
“one for the price of all”.

“did you ever loved us?”

“What difference does it make now?!”

I cover myself with an old blanket,
with a picture of Hanna Montana reading Pravda.

(end of the reel)