come on, open that door to face
what did you leave in the antechamber of your happiness
(I'm talking about the sad, chained lions roaring their nightmares
of the bloodthirsty watering that produced the fruits of illusion
of the black nights that drowned out the desperate cries
of those who didn't care to be exuberantly happy
while his brothers were swallowed by the murderous maw
of those who gorge themselves on the flesh of the innocent)
all these spilled cups for your disguised smile
that inflates and explodes in the egocentrism of an infinite space
(I'm talking about these empty tributes we pay
to the sadists who torture us with their inhumane successes
while we crawl on the slime ground of the defeated).
forty years late for death
uprisings toppled civilizations without hurting my eyes
at the apex of the vortex and inside this antechamber and shelter
the euclidean dome engine where i move the galaxy
I sweep the creation with the neural scanner
around here I became brutish and for each failure
I adapted the respective lie
I've been layering things for a long time
solid blocks of ghostly mist
but complacent with the physiology of what is organic
I know it's time to disappear into the pale palace of time
the vacuum unfolds like a three-dimensional ball of wool
each house of heat rises and blasts the stars
the dark and infinite field of the universe spews flames
quasar beams build the checkered web
where I'll be stuck while I die.
Speculation
What is the best time to die?
A beautiful summer’s day
or in the winter when it rains.
There is an untimely satisfaction
that mourners - if there is any-
will be wet and die of the flu.
Sitting in the antechamber
discussing where we are going.
My plan is clear its Saragossa
where the dream of life continues,
because our conciseness was
a flash of light in the darkness.
The flowers of winter wither wildly
Petals drooping, dropping, falling down
down
down.
I pluck these rotting flowers from her ear
Her hair is stems, as are her veins
I smell the scents. Perfume.
Her boots are strewn over the antechamber
Slowly growing mold.
Despite my pleas, she
Would cut the flowers down, always
But they just keep coming, blooming
And wilting
The moon casts us in a strange glow
The white petals shine, shimmer
My room will be covered in her soon
If I am not careful
In mind's castle many furnished rooms
In upper chamber, chaste virtue grooms
In lower chamber, strands of civility bloom
In antechamber, auxiliary dreams, visions illume
In the inner chamber, fears, insecurities subsume
In dim, adjoining corridors, venal guile do entomb
From bed chamber, hypothalamus, carnal libations spoon
In library, Prefrontal cortex, sentient patterns resume
In nursery, hippocampus, Id suckles the womb
In hearth's cozy fireplace, nurtured Ego swoons
From dusky, dank cellar, hidden desires fume
In dungeon's dark recesses resides a foreboding gloom
In courtyard, amygdala, aesthetic designs mushroom
Covered bridge sheltering frothy lagoon
Woven tapestry gilding each silted dune
Garnished threads over polished diadem doth croon
Fabricated ensemble breaching pristine medley, emitting swaggering tune
A treasured grove; each branch artfully hewn
A regal polish smoothly layered on a well-crafted spoon
Scented laces nestling in furrowed moon
Binding corset ballasting each milky balloon
Red velvet gown swaddling paps so roon
Silver, monogrammed broach cresting over satin plume
Golden necklace the antechamber doth groom
Lilac perfume from each tendered Liily doth fume
Plowing through the quilted morass so carefully strewn
O'er snowy plain with sculpting touches tenderly prune
Nurturing each crevice; in your fecund valley swoon
Watching in rapturous chorus each mound bloom
With fertile lips I pollinate each riveted loom
From each rendered nipple a sweet nectar I exhume
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