The austerity of loneliness
cuts any meaning through written sheets of sleepless nights
in a form of unfinished poems about you.
Not yet written stanzas
with missing points diffused with ellipses
images CounterEarth No 1(61)are cornered by the silent emptiness. A sigh
crushed into a long paragraph is shipwrecked on a question mark
with echoes of flat-broke mismatched rhymes.
Pitiful they sound, like the last clink of pocket change before a payday.
Welcome to the fire, welcome to the Antichthon.
Life is now whacked with dream states
crossing into the nebulas of integral organic photon
expressed in opposed and complex polarities
where a touch of a laser brews the coffee dawn
unrealistically fast.
Let’s start a day and reduce all concepts to absurdity to sound cheap and clear,
good for the textbooks sale
and check the rest of our never-ending bad epics at the counter
to sleep one more time with every word we overpaid for:
“Welcome to the Grand Hotel!
We are infinitely full, but we’ll take you in;
your skewed essays, bigamous poems, Cyclops of short stories,
dissenter contributors,
and everything in sonnets that may turn some cultivated soul
into a jelly-butter honeyed feathery flap
covered in delusion
and dark chocolate of desire. We are here to deflate your n+1 room theory.
Yes, you’re the right customer! I like artsy sheeple like you!
Pay first, then I’ll make up for all of your visuals, all of your estrogen demands!”
I poured again the cubical of coins inscribed with an invisible sign
“Everyone and anything for sale!” Add to the core of a deceit,
while we struggle to pay hungry ghost bills
and find ourselves being lost on the story trail of endless papers
before every credit score blanks slashed to a cloud bank
images Earth2 (61)of electronic arteries and veins.
All of these lines cut me sideways.
For some time I couldn’t move
with ritual of burning the paper work for money rhymes….
Oh, all these backyard happenings
“Lit me on the pyre”
before the last digital SWIFT of the house transfer wire
to become stalled in the middle,
disfigured by the spreading umbrella of a malware;
the virus that nothing alive or existent can survive
reaching the same scale of Bach’s counter-tenor floods
Erbarme dich, mein Gott;
bleeding over orchestra crescendo sounds
of ever flowing harmony rushing by a melody river flow
and chancing to merge with mind estuaries
sliding into an ocean of stigmata sensed presence.
We hurt breaking in wounds wide open
following the trail of all ancestors’ sacrificial bloods.
Once when words scuffle metal scrap for last money
with no meaning
they turn life into a long pause
followed by the scream substituted
with failed cell-phone connections
riding on floods of tears
and uncountable distance of prairie silence.
Once there was knowledge infinite as the eternal sky screenshot,
but now Jelly Bean androids feed the endless with modified worms of selfies;
Have you noticed that the spring of wonder is aggressively replaced
with a tackle to trip on a serious question
and get physical
wrestling the dilemma to a solid ground?
Is it worth to use the tears of innocence
to feed the bottom of the Bayes theorem
and it’s probability alarming charts
that come as a combo with failed prophecy
never ended self-fulfilled
history with a continuum presence of suffering?
Oh, Diary of a Madmanhis voice
sculptures my moist and moody thoughts;
Hear the somniloquy in his perfect silky timber
gliding octaves above the orchestra,
and mounting the pulpit into a living mystery!
Paired in crescendo of the tragic passion stage,
mellowed in aroused arias sang in minds of wrappers;
“Nothing yields,
Like the oldest hymn,
sang and chanted always, in the same, boring, but known way.”

Leave the hymn and hang each note to rush in harmonic sequences
between fifths and octaves
so one could hear symphony
in every bursting sound of lonely minds;
commenced with silence,
played with a voice, but at the end no attending the instruments;
oh, virtue of invisible harmony
you pull strings in hyperextension of its ligaments
and with the fall down the steps we bruise
turning red and black; you hold me back.
Have you left all instruments to me?
Melody sprouts; feels so right;
Should I wear colored body full of light?

 

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