Synthetic Telepathy, the Three Scene Poem and D. Gray

I. Psychotronic Apparition

In the hub of the charged particles vast prairie magnetized slinking night
Thick air clouds my thoughts in bits&bytes over the crystal liquid screened sky,
Hollow voice blurts too far in debt poked with train horns ripping through the suburban heights
It’s soliloquy dark invaded from one side with the antenna neon street light.

II. Crash

While followed with the flocks of surmising bats
The midnight Bluetooth tethering texting beeps
Spreading the acoustic fear I can hear
in wheezing of inflamed lungs ready to burst in the bubble cough;
and I know, I am first in line to reside
In the world’s hang man choking pattern and lose it all—
The fortress of all things dangled between the failed loans,
Invisible money transactions,
Lost cash pockets, and times shares….
I was a gullible fool
turning the wheel of a lucky coin for a while,
The stubborn obscurantist waiting magic of a new moon every month,
the filthy greed’s foul
That stands now alone with a naked bag and
Full of fear trembling pounds of bare flesh.
This is the time when bronchi fail to exhale,
When the flotilla of cubicle small businesses sink without bail,
Where the panic pith exhorts all nerves beat to my forehead veins
Coloring lips blue in oxygen restrains,
And I ride reckless on the outskirts of the world crack stock-market D.-day,
Forcing pedal to the ground speed, and finally crash on a sharp curb turning Gray…

III. Silent Talk

Leaving muddy footsteps behind
My moody, damp, rainy dreamwalk
Follows the stormy talk
And nothing really matters any more,
The silent inner voice vibrates
never go back
do not run home,” “this is the cliff from which everybody falls
Into a new dream and it tastes like death, never go back.”
I am ready to leave the known scene
And become one more time the amorphous anonymous,
The face that no one knows on the street,
The hoody covert identity, the street invisible man,
Standing on the highway with a hitch-hiker’s thumb-up,
Often lost in time homeless lapses and nullity of ego,
With no family or friend,
still finding ease in simple people’s everyday talk…
I do not want any longer a script to recite and to change the white shirts and roles,
Take me away, away from the can of crawly lies sleazing
Down the neck of my present life perforated with ulcers of pretense.
Let everything present become the past,
A bohemian drop of chance and muddle is better
Than the next served meal
In that white, silent, oversized kitchen,
Where I leave full untouched plates one after the other
And descend in a hollow shadow on hold as a slow upcoming night
waiting for hours like a still-born
For your blackberry tweets
pending on HIS business trips and suddenly canceled flights….
Believe me honey, I just want to go away,
Away from your lips, whispers, night presentiments
That keeps me in a constant loop between the arousal and desolation–
Betwixt the real and fake.
Now when I am a haunted man with no roots,
there are no more delusional
obsessions of nightly escapes affairs,
there are no more trespassed margins
between the two our neighboring houses,
although I am still there,
in the midst of that frozen night in the back-yard hot-tub
where ice of fear melts in your eyes followed by tears
through which sifted are all naked, frozen, salty stars, one by one.
Just before throwing the iPhone in a ditch
And gazing over the egg-shell armored pitch dark night:
These are my last wireless verses spreading
Over your blooming blackberry firewalls and pages,
Forget these mounds of worry,
You already know too much: 121;2M2H,143, Dare to Say?




My Immortal

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