Curled as when unborn,
In amnionic ignorance,
Chaos drifts to outer vacuum,
Flown out to nothing lands.
Left in stillness are but blinks,
Flicks of twitches, nightmare flashes;
The molten shadows, upset ink,
Pouring out a realm of lies.
Eloi, Eloi, why do I forsake me?
The mind that playing God,
Pretends to be myself,
Perverse passions, dreaded fears,
Thrown at me as real.
I know not when the conjurations,
Are born but all internally,
Only then in hindsight seen,
I lived in pure deception.
There dwell I in mind’s invention,
Years that last but days,
And hours but mere moments.
Worlds that all a blur,
Conceal the coffin’s nail,
Purgerer’s conviction—
Of rat king imitation: serpent knots;
Thus seen—
Squeeze the throat — make glottal stop,
Force out the lizard head,
Still breathing—
Half digested, hydrochloric mess,
Alive on technicality,
Headless reptile forced,
Back out where it was consumed.
Fear is misleading but after that what is left?
It's impossible to truly understand the scope of what our minds can do but fear is the tool we use to stop in our tracks, without time to consider the plane we are in, and drop us into a stasis or sprint.
This world is dangerous to us but life giving to all. Our demise is a dependency for the world to keep turning. Fear keeps us alive long enough to make a difference to the ecology but fails every time. The tool is a resistance but not an immunity. Where it leads us is still our choice.
How it leads us it based on previous uses.
We mold the tool to fit best the previous uses.
Its outcome is the result of previous uses.
The tool. An instrument.
A proficiency in fear allows the user to be more aware of its use but changes nothing in its conjuration.
Take care. Be fearful.
(In language of flowers, mimosa is conjuration of secret love: no one knows that I love you)
A doe-eyed blue gaze, twirl of curly tress
feisty air froth , fizz of golden champagne
crystal glasses clink, her daisy print dress
shimmering silver, all scrambled in brain.
Cold ice melted, and love warmed up again.
Mimosa kindled in yellow sweet scent
memories cloud, ... ignorant , innocent.
an empty ring finger, submersed in wine
a secret love, never said what it meant
till dusk I linger...she'll never be mine.
2nd Apri 2020
Sponsor Beth Evans
Contest Name Delightful Dizains
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
Watch it bloom in the midnight sun,
embrace its deep scarlet glow,
feel its thorns pierce your tender,
soft silk skin.
Watch it wilt in the frost,
creating frozen dew upon its petals,
sparkling like pieces of broken crystal,
feel its powerful allurement,
mystery and conjuration embracing your
mind within its gentle touch of attraction
and disguised true meaning,
although silently it whispers many
words of truth and beholds the fate
of life - birth and death.