“Great Pretender”

“Great Pretender”

Your lines, they got no steam.

They reside in low places.

Waiting for credit they didn’t earn.

There’s no life in them.

They can’t compete.

Floating flaccid and flavorless.

Chewed out gum,

stuck to the bottom of a gnarly Chuck Taylor smelling of burnt tungsten and dried oregano.

Pretension worries but doesn’t sweat.

Poems need sweat.

It’s as if you lived and learned nothing.

No passion.

No life.

A litany of envy, thick.

A paucity of hope that you could do well if given a chance.

But the thing is, though,

you were given many chances.

You chose to say you were something, rather than work at being it.

“Phantasmagoria”

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https://pixabay.com/get/eb32b20b21f3033ed1534705fb0938c9bd22ffd41cb3144993f9c57ba1/background-2734972_1920.jpg?attachment

“Phantasmagoria”

Dish soap mix melting on paint can lids.

A siphoned sight of dreams develop over the frame.

Bright and muted colors muddle the lens.

Forearm hairs prickle and goose flesh pop, pop, pops.

Crackling tissue paper stuffed in used cardboard toilet paper rolls.

While the smoothness of pouring honey is ruined by fly paper fingers.

Breathing is labored, then rhythmic.

Electric caresses shoot out to nerve endings, and back again.

Looping lull.

Then, all of a sudden:

BEING!

Standing diminutive within a black hole.

Looking upward, outward, inward,

but not downward.

As soon as you do that, you become unmoored and move through space-time at a speed faster than light.

Which is a construct that is yet undiscovered and deemed impossible.

Yet, it is, was, and forever will be,

despite our best efforts to derail dreams through the application of reason.

Whoosh!