Sleep(er)less Cyber Love Spell
(Brave New Quantum Interface, SF Trilogy)
I. Lamentations Over the Split Human Root
Blessed is the serenity of emptiness
under which hides the stone crumb of the Earth’s tuff volcanic despair,
the split particle dirt piled under the nails of invisible lightspeed,
this wave of a dark chocolate matter,which invades the mystical dimension borders and extends into
a mimicked Brave New quantum form
of the interface where all selves are transported in modal photons and qubits,
while rippled is the human flesh,
shackled to aluminum nature,
and bodies slimed with dirty facts.
This new predicament makes us embodied in all forms of times and places
Where we are not, but we are only possible dimensional dispositions
Left to channel our inner multiple white matter light transmissions
reaching the distant Galactic stars, alien thoughts,
and megajoules of pseudonym sensations,
where all are pleasures of inferred hope,
but this is neither the sun, nor the shadow wall of reality,
and it is leading far astray, away from the brave acts.
II. Sleepless Love Spell
Toe curls around your Facebookand the cyber spell cloud cuddles me wrapped in the hormone night
while waiting on the edge of quantum dark
for a new photo and the update on your gibberish somnambulist talk.
This late at night, afterall, I still stick with mirrored Internet neurons
playing the keyboard music composition
the lost mice paths in stimuli cornered into the strawberry musk to dust…
And, just when ready to breathe the death of a comatose dreamless sleep
the Mask of Book Faces jailbreaks the android wall of sounds–
and finally it comes the awaited snapshot of the wild beach party
where your goofy smile slowly penetrates
over the screen curtain of compulsive night
and marches in solid visions
with liquefied moves through one more love neural storm addiction.
Just remember, when everything goes wrong with those party girls
and you walk away alone from the sleeping indulged bodies washed off the shores of Calypso
stay surrendered in wonder to the comets and stars,
so I can tremble while you feel dizzy in my shadow matter
teletransported into the endless ocean wavy moonlight ray foam
and transmuted into the voodoo patchy doll,
which hallucogenic spell firing darts trespass string gaps
uniting our luminous minds.
III. And, What is Love?
Down the rabbit hole tinted Chrome love
alters the distance into a remote presence
of my caressing surf swells over your naked seaside smile,
but you don’t know me
–this ghostly presentiment touch–
you don’t see thy lover drowning in the quicksand time grains,
and although you feel our kissed bodies gravitation
you do not hear the shipwreck sighs stirring the glassed poem on my computer screen;
whose wordy crab shield
stands firm against the prairie fierce stormy night.
While you are still bewitched–neither asleep, nor awake–
stay with me
and recite this phantom love poem raining page
staring beneath the human splintered root;
let the profound thunder shock you
and let words pierce your choking throat stuck on the old razor logic.
While walking away from the jinxed shore
all our profound dreamwalks now become stained and disfigured feelings
that Lead to the lavender town withdrawal,
the another extreme virtual play,
where the unity of opposite complementariness are spiraled red and green–
all in once, the two times two, the androgynies reflected as four,
like all colors shaped in the pinnacle middle running to all spreading ends,
a very superfluous perfection hidden core of all existing things–
those right and wrong,
straight and crocked,
and those happy and sad.
Please, do not put the Firewall on your cyber space suit of love,
I’ll die, like a plucked bird’s nest after this scalar storm,
I’ll become silent Desperado isolate,
like a prisoner behind the bars writing the cell poems
to the solitude of crushing years spotted with vastness of minutes never to pass….
Sometimes the arcades virtual portal of the cyber world spike desires to fly to high,
on which wings, darling, we hang on,
but every morning we wake up wounded
and the gills bleed from the fish hooks of these lost nightly gaming worlds.
If there is no this true love, it is better to be
an addict shivering in despair after withdrawal from the crack-add-on-pipe,
the cult member washed on the shores of the brain train-rack,
the homeless living on the fringe of the fear not touching anyone’s heart,
a multiple disordered personality with the suck of pills
following the psychiatrists adverse prescriptions
and filling hopes of the lost rendering possible perspectives,
a hermit surrendered to the voices of the faith trip,
the invisible divine goddess lolling seizure faces in her mother tongue,
a prophet convinced in his own blood-right
multiplying the stars with contingencies of the future,
and after all,
it is better to be deserted,
like a vacant mind that shoots the darts into the dark
not firing a point of this sleepless poem.
“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”