Whispering blisters from an alien heaven
To my crisp ears, of webs
Mocks me for my attempts
At a self-fulfilling prophecy
To dominate the ground
And spin faster than this Earth allows
To become an armour of dust
My flesh becomes foreign
And feels of my pores, are that of burning blades My heart is a trapping underground soul
Trying to climb up from the rubble,
Of tomorrow and beyond
The breath you have isn’t for you
It is just another’s electrocution for them to ingest
The winds are blocked from entry
As your ghost becomes a desert
For walking feet that begs for a new torture
Little bells ringing
In a blasphemous prophetic gallop
Rags of clothes burn and flow
Into thorny cactus, puncturing
The melting of the skies encase you
Into a gray-still photograph
That only blinking eye stars can see
While the devils of this room
Laugh from invisible cauldrons
We are being moulded
To become the bones you’ve always imagined yourself as
You can’t be the ego, the prophetic ruler
When your bones will be the easiest
And the hungry moon is ready for the feasting
Quickly, flickering skies flashing through time-lapses
The dust, the whispers become one
Ecclesiastes in the Everglades
Babe, I can’t remember how I got here
Living with the other orphans by the Harlem River
I was shackled down with barrels to the Everglades.
I’m seeking all the pleasures in the hunt for him. What am I?
Am I only peaceful for moments – Borderline by fiery hate?
I find myself a psychedelic casualty,
I find myself a Moses in Manhattan
I find myself a new Da Vinci,
I find myself a drifter covered in red mud
I drink and have been drunk around all the corners, Embraced for years with tainted wisdom.
I can destroy and be destroyed in reptilian thought,
I have swum in all the moisture of rot
So, how do I continue,
When the madness chases, and is laughing?
I built this village of apparitions with my cut, bare hands.
All of the gardens were mine
The fruit of these trees fell in waves into the baskets.
I can dress in materials made for royalty
Amass a kingdom of jailhouses, I’m the hunger in the zombie In trashed mermaids that time has recycled.
In these Everglades, I’m the shillelagh
When before, I was a limping wing pigeon escaping from the magic.
Still, I am chasing that gold in my heart.
While in webs caught in the lint of my brain.
Is my heaven only for Snow White, or does it also include the labor dungeons?
photo by Sterlinglanier