40/40: July/August Poetry Project

Starting 7/23/18

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“My Tired”

“My Tired”

My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.

Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.

Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.

Methodical metronome,

cadence of an old age home,

waiting to retire.

Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.

Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.

Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.

Lost, recovered? Abruptly.

Dream-weaving steampunk.

Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.

Deep oscillating breath,

skirts the breadth of death.

“Lost”

“Lost”

I feel the confusion in your kisses.

Open mouthed and adrift.

A beauty when your sweaty,

you drive my madness swift.

A desert expedition,

a traveling caravan.

I’m a gypsy in your harem,

a crusader in your land.

Your heart is fixed in motion,

why the need, to act so cold?

a chance at your devotion,

is worth its weight in gold.

I huddle in a dungeon,

a prison meant to keep.

you liberate my passion,

and set my soul at ease.

“Phantasmagoria”

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

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!