Love comes from somewhere else.
I dreamt of you
walking by a construction site
were you also worked
and you commiserated with me against yourself
warmly
then I dreamt of a bowl of fruit
fresh apples and pears and strawberries
dewy and sharp, cool
I took a piece and underneath
thawing, slowly unfurling
long tired legs, sleepy fangs of the spider
her aunts emerging from the yawning darkness
silent
her mother
weightless
limbs extending
gesturing terrible violent questions
a foot or more towards
where I stood ensnared
shuddering
waking
In my dream last night I awoke to a phone full of missed calls and text messages
most from a screaming mad princess
a few from a monster
I have written a thousand poems and now I am high.
Don’t break things. Avoid cocaine.
Lives move in curious trajectories
difficult to feel the tail at times
difficult to predict what I am becoming
There is a familiar pressure in the center of my mind
a mere matter of tickling out the trout
the act of poetry is to release inspiration
It wells from beneath the foamy surface of the conscious mind
foreign from the nations of dreams living under the water
vampiric citizens darting through the shadowy spaces
where roots of personality stir in the subtle currents
drinking fossilized oil of fundamental impulses
Creation, destruction, exploration.
It wells deep and it’s important to find it there
where it’s pure and strong,
untainted by the all the dead ideas and failures that lay rotting in memory
oozing the black grog insecurities survive on.
undiluted by the thin milk dribbling from the nipples of expectation’s in-house vending machine
unsterilized by the eyes of the white agents of reason
methodically measuring the magic from mystery through bright blue light
where one transient seed of emotion,
one delicate flake of truth,
one sublime instant of understanding may swiftly blossom into crystalline lattice of densely emoting imaginary,
a powerful machinery of flowing phrases guiding you gently through meaning’s mazes
lazily lifting you though silky soliloquies of seamless self expression,
dragging you harshly through fetid marshes of fetal suicides,
chewing you,
gnashing cliche’d delusions of self perception between teeth of introspection beyond your range of thought,
Crushing you in jaws flexing cold questions against a silent skull of irrefutability
digesting you in the bellies of epiphanies rimless and eternal to your mortal stature.
swallowing itself whole before your gasping eyes
Dissolving into an fragmented echo, pregnant insanities degrading into flimsy inanities,
unraveling to reveal the clinking bones of joke, flesh roiled away
larger, swifter, darker than humor could capture in the narrow net of it’s instant
twisting back into the poet by the depth of it’s awareness
and stopping itself
like an ouroboros
like homonuclear zero-quantum coherence.
Better a fool than a coward.
I love my life, I just wish it was over.
Shuffling on to that cold, distant nirvana.
In the high tundra of my mind, watching the jungles burn.
My mind is a deep and eager burial ground. My mind is a stage.
You appeared in the spotlight last night
slightly to the left.
Immediately I tried to sweep you back to earth as I have done before,
many times to many things,
but I was stubbed.
“Hey…” you said, sadly indignant.
It had been a while.
You looked dead and cold,
dirt in your clothing and hair.
I’d torn a wet chunk of clay out of your shoulder.
I pushed again but you remained,
a glow of foreign energy in your existence.
My eyes opened and stared at my phone.
I felt you leaning on the far side of a high wall
Thinking
remembering
projecting
perhaps hoping
for a crack to appear.
I thought the time and distance and remembered
the milk and honey and hoped
a swift flash of hope
for a way
Then,
“It won’t be me,” I thought
for I had struck the possibility from the device.
I stuck my phone back in my pocket
and soon shook you back into your echoey grave.
Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.
—
Arthur Schopenhauer
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
