It’s time to follow Her with an instinct of the rat brain,
swarms of bees, ants, birds algorithms’ design,
array of scornful stimuli, neural adaptations,
and catch Her spirit remotely in the net of sound and spot-lights.

It’s time to crawl the plasma pulsated beam behind
Her neck in a form of an itch,
like spotted goosebumps touch
and slip through the cracks of Her mind,
where she travels in long inverse circles
free and hypnotized through jammed highway strides.
It’s time to face Her helpless antithesis,
and encrypt Her drawn living paradox
into the analytical bits of the android infinite slates.

Tuned with her hands on the radio knob
corrupted ether leads us
Straight to the song she likes,
I Am Your Man
So we can fly on the deep bass melody jet vibes
While she reveals to me the most hidden mindless thoughts
wrinkled in the sheets of naked memory touches
crowded chronically around one, never realized kiss without breaks–
so difficult for me to translate to anything I could sense
PRISM; the melancholic six squared face with uneven cut edges
reflected in the convex curves of memory chips mirrors
where I pin point the fingerprints of Her obscene absence.
“What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart,
and stills the soft air of sadness?”
Verses she read every night and repeats in a dream the most,
As, though, she knows me, the head ghost,
the very surrendering song host.
Again, she is running late,
but still redirects the mesmerizing highway points
from the standard traveling salesman path:
just to hear a few more lyrics; a part of that song
which stretches Her memory chemtrails too far
and opens once healed sky wounds wide open
omen to Her leaping eyes filled with rainy tears,
that she brushes aside bypassing riskily all cars
and moves to the fastest lane to leave behind the past.
When she turns right, at the right angle
I’ll be interfacing Her on the edge of the plasma silent talk
Nesting Her scalar inner chats into the hive intelligence of future memories.

I am a fisherman of thoughts, cell-phone calls, radio waves,
I am your silent passerby,
the discrete taboo decoder,
always tuned in the web of your desires,
plunging on the plate of your darkest cravings
moving steadfast all of yours deepest hidden gardens
to the union colony of all minds,
broken in the metaheuristic perspectives,
to the ever expanding tower of secrets. . .

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