Tag Archives: dream

Ocean Breath

I’m denied the saunter

In my fluorescent laughter

Breaths a pond of enigma

Submerging under deliria

How did yesterday disappear

Behind lusting thorns of brier

Succulent madness fervent

Heavy is the intoxicating scent

Of the playacted midnight

Violence against lost respite

Fingers barely touching stars

Say you will delight me afar

Upon the liquid dream catchers

A woven hammock of water

Sing my lullabies back to rest

As railways twist unto west

Future caught between feathers

Of a soft incandescent laughter

Oxygen’s an ocean of sagacity

Burning out blinking lights of folly.

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Stars In Flight

The hope that you spilled onto my tongue

Still has no discernible taste

And all the second chances, times infinity

Felt like such a complete waste

I want to defy the serpents hissing profane

And light up these lips in butane

I want to believe that yesterday don’t exist

And cross it out of my checklist

But I relapse into hospital wedding gowns

In voices that don’t make a sound

Choking on gold ribbons, feeling the same

As I get tired of writing my name

Spinning in cycles of silver clouds and pose

Faith as banal as a lacerating rose

Telling heaven what I want again ‘til it hurts

Injured by hell, losing to my curse

Will I ever replace restless flames that ignite

As pretence returns to take the fight?

Will I close my eyes against the terror austere

Can I say I’ll still be here in a year?

But I hear you singing in the wind and echoing

Past empty hallways, ever listening

Sabotaging rusted knives deigning to be selfish

With a stellar colliding for the finish

You will never know you’re my angel, will you?

You’ll never know how many times

You saved me from falling out into dark oblivion

As desperation’s bile starts to arise

When you swore you won’t chase in circles south

And whispered as I held my mouth

I did yearn to die, but you make me want to fake it

Sleeping in carparks, I might make it

And the floral pain nearly tears my skin into shreds

But you drink away the poisoned lead

I’m screaming thoughts which you turned into wine

I couldn’t rest until I’m startled into fine

I never deserved all of this, though it might be sparse

You swore it’ll disappear, promise to stars

I’ll be alright, love, I can bleed away all my phantoms

Someday I’ll fly to you, away from rock bottom.

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narcolepsy

how can one

go to sleep

if they were

never truly

a w a k e ?

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Waltz of the Midnight Bloom

Glacial advocacies amongst asphodel tides—

Such a sight!

.

Where would midnight be if not for the

Crescent waltz of the moon,

.

Spiraling into untoward lunacy;

Consumed with arrogant throes of

.

Calla flesh, blossoming in your sleep?

Taste my saline melancholy

.

And erase the

Starred question marks in my lungs…

.

Where shall you seek me?

My forgetful heaven persists

.

To thrive in amnesiac rhapsodies,

Euphonies of pink

.

Molting off your tongue like feathers

On a weeping angel on clouds of

.

Your descending grasp;

Gentle yet merciless in my soul.

.

Your quiet breaths

Drenching my bones, my every whim,

.

I feel you on my skin, my hair, my lips; your

Words of floral adornment

.

Assaulting me. Your falling meteors

Touch my eyes, drowsy sparks fading into neon

.

Again—

Melting me into neverwhere.

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northern headaches

The August sky will then bare witness 
To a brand new chapter with torn up pages 
When the planets align, I can feel the gates opening 
To my courage as I proceed to run my fingers through her hair 
And forget everyone who’s jaded, ’cause they don’t matter…

~*~

sometimes i wish

that the northern lights

would disappear

at the tip of my tongue

and fade out into

blustering brushstrokes

of roseate evergreen

as if it was the words

to my seraglio symphony;

the distracting g-clef

submerged under an array

of spinning notes that dance

under the flimsy ebony

spill of the midnight breath

inhaling once, twice…

whispering woes of another

nightingale’s serendipity

bracelets interlacing the velvet

skeins of a dream that i once

lost…and i’m still losing…

i wander past vertical fields

and topsy-turvy ravines

until my footsteps are no

longer mine—to keep,

to feel, to trace with the

tip of my quill and ink

and i recede; as the nimble

mimsies that blush a vibrant

pastel on my flushed lips

kiss me a somatic farewell—

sometimes i wish that the

northern lights would never

melt and falter away.

~*~

Brash and hopeful 
That my luck will not perish tonight 
And when the overcast tries to kill me 
It’s your slow motion rain 
That falls warm on my neck that keep me alive…

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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not tonight

I found a place I can sit, a place where everyday light
Hits like the palm of your hand when you’re reaching
For something that’s balled up in the sky; that’s the way
I like to see myself, reaching for just one star at a time…

~*~

no, not tonight

i won’t be lamenting

for permanent rain

lights muffling sense

like cotton stuffing

in my rag-doll brain

.

no, not tonight

i won’t be grieving

for weathered hopes

symmetrical analogies

sketching out dreams

in my hoarse throat

.

no, not tonight

i won’t suffocate within

my claustrophobic no’s

i shall free myself from

my bedroom walls and

give myself room to grow.

~*~

I heard what was a song inside the earth
I put my ear to the ground and I sang with every
Word, see, I got lost in the sound—
I felt so safe inside the sight of the sun
I really think I’m home now, I really think that…

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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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Grounded

We’ll dive around and never let our bodies touch the ground
And right now I’m feeling like I’ll never go back down
Till then, taking flights around the corner ends and bends
I’ll soar up higher to admire when, fly away with me…

~*~

You used to be the folded

Pastel paper aeroplane

I threw over hanging

Chandeliers and ceilings

To watch my hopes soar

Past and beyond nightmares

And my fettered inklings

But I realised that you can

Be easily carried away

By the zephyr if you wished

You’re not tethered to my

Fingers, you may do as well

As you’ve playfully pleased

And this child can only watch

In melancholia as his dearest

Papercraft friend navigates past

Weathered clouds and cool rain

As his own toes lift from the ground

But pulled by gravity, always returned

To land, away from the skies again.

~*~

Fly away with me
Try a little harder to flap your wings
High above the sea
Get a little higher, follow me…

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Somaesthetics

Something filled up my heart with nothing
Someone told me not to cry
But now that I’m older, my heart’s colder
And I can see that it’s a lie
Children, wake up, hold your mistake up
Before they turn the summer into dust…

~*~

carry me through

what could have been

injections and evolutions

under jaded azaleas

full moon waltzing in

crests of hillside repentance

oh, how the violas sing

for the desuetude of their whim

is there a feather in flight?

or am i merely hallucinating?

answer not my inquiry

and let the mirages dream

in an adenochrome perspicacity

and cryogenic sunlight

as if the stars are a talisman

to your manic narcotics

they won’t steal a lullaby

simply so you can push back

the ocean waves with your palms

and set the branches on fire

no; if then, where will we be?

haunted by archaic conglomeration

of words whispered with your

carcinogenic nicotine lips

tasting the heroin with needles

and rusted safety pins

but lusting for the lancinating

ripples of wearied crucible

who knew addiction is so grand?

but like the allegories you

stabbed in the acheronian dark

and the promises that we’ve

sewn on our paper wrists

impediments and lassitudes

are but an oil burner in the cellar

whose arrhythmic flame

snuffs out with the damping

tempestuous breeze of your own scathed

somaesthesia and noiseless lungs.

~*~

If the children don’t grow up, our bodies get bigger
But our hearts get torn up, we’re just a million little gods
Causing rain storms, turning every good thing to rust
I guess we’ll just have to adjust…

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