Ghosts Psyche

IN the gloom of morrows eve, everywhere I see visions of yesterday and illusions of tomorrow,  the cars that hum like drones, lurking and seeking and crossing -- then there are the bicyclists and the newspapermen and the mailmen and the policemen, and all of these people submerged within their lives, not even stopping once to blink, busy-bodied, hurry-headed people rushing thru the air, not even breathing it, but bouncing in and out of towns, shooting down highways and freeways and railways and skipping across skies and seas and sands, soaring thru time, consuming clocks and pissing seconds by the quart, quadruplicating themselves and fictionalizing their souls to pixels and digits...

THIS gangrene period, this spinning globe spins its own silky web of ink, a hydroponic question mark bathes in a hybrid answer, an exaggerated solution is all we need, an abstract, purposely contrasted to hypaethral equivalents, further seeking the number withing the hyperbola salted core of her microcosmic ova chamber, the noxious sum reverberates out of the machine, the skies open to receive the word of answer, the liquid number composed by astral memories, lugubrious deaths before lives, bursts of flame within the translucent pupil, lost in the darkness, transparent particles of light, fragments night souls lurk with saw-toothed smirks, two pieces of the same heart encased in two marbles tossed in different directions...

 THE SUN and the MOON and the lingering of the jeweled reply, the scar on the sky, the hollowed dimple on the face of the Venus christened for a brief essence of aortic splendor -- don't the stars know already that We are the Gods with not even a drop of proof, basing existence off of our own ludicrous assumptions and the improbable lucidity of our own wonders, for we think and question the presence of the planets but we don't question the spurting sprinklers in the neurons of time -- we feed the plastic trees while oiling fruitful keys -- when staring into the sun becomes a tangible voice, a phunny pain, like when the sun shines in the eyes of your father and for a brief moment you see the brilliance of the color of his pain and his effort, and the chemical epiphany that occurs, seeking resolve, seeking equations for the undesired knowledge of oblivious insects, morphing themselves into sand and belittling their macrocosm perspective to paint, ethereal microcosmos, eternal diamond structures and granite statues forever appealing to the silence within the throats of golden pyramids, a butter marrowed skeleton with jewels brilliant with the atmosphere of this spinning marble resonating a long forgotten air of the faded ghost psyche..

  - - - - 

----but what  magnitude is pugnacious  enough to birth another mirror of your face? What moon is red enough to sea your blood? What MARS?

ROLAND swam in his own image, and tasted mirages of skin and peeled leaf under drooling glances of female glimpse, dimpled cheeks and swollen busts, ripening before his very grasp. I would watch him flirt magnanimously with girls as the clock ticked like a bird behind me and the teacher talked like a clock in front of me. Meanwhile I scribbled poetic prose under the Pi notes.

AFTER class I would meet Roland by the fountain, and he would always have a cigarette in his lips. Women would stare at him from their little packs and laugh cuphandedly, spurting giggles in his direction, and he would stare back from behind his plastic ivory sunglasses, blowing crystal smoke.

“Roland!” I tapped him on the shoulder and awoke him from his feminine trance.

“Cut it loose, baby, clean and square.” He murmured like a monkey, and slapped my face.

“Listen, man, I got no time for your pansy jargon.”

“What the gosh golly,” he blew his cigarette into my face and I winced and withdrew and then slapped him and then he laughed and then I laughed and then  he slapped me again and I kicked him in the leg and then Professor Spitsbergen came over and separated us.

MEANWHILE behind the mirror the shelves were bare, always bare, left empty, life ridden, sucked dry thru the walls,  porous dry-wall, a ceaseless barrage of rusty rooted towel hangers that only emit a timeless echo of when it once stood tall as a tree, breathing in the sun and shading everyone below, and someone cut it down and turned it into a towel hanger. 

WHENCE was a thence a word? Thence doth happened accordingly to Jupiter's storm, a great clash of cataclysmic thinking beneath the soil and into the core of the mirror where I stared, life sucked dry by the walls, the blank granite covered counterclockwise sink that spewed ink whence the clock revolved every eleventh time, for some ripe reason the grapes grow off the ceiling fan, and sometimes when I turn on the fan the grapes shoot at the walls and paint them cherry nipped and black, sometimes they're so hard and black that holes develop and little bugs crawl in and outta them. I stare at them from the bed, stare thru the open door into the bathroom and watch the cockroaches jump outta the toilet, covered in sewage bile and trail green dotted s**t everywhere on the tile and them curiously prance onto the fuzzy orange carpet of my five square inch room, stop once they notice that I'm staring at them disgustedly, and then turn and dash off into the corner and crawl into the holes in the wall. For now I leave the fan off.

I AWOKE in the  hi-fi classroom and all I heard is the murmur of miscellaneous voices in the air, complete cosmic chatter and chocolate covered conversation considering customarily crimson cycles consisting of captivating cannibalistic cannabis, canniness cannons, and capers that cant cape capaciously, calculating and calculative questions cruising canals of consciousness. 

“Hey Jack, whataya doing? Wake up, buddy, the class is over.”

It was Roland, I could tell by the hand. “Get the f**k outta here, I said.”

“Spitsbergen, will have a fit man, wake up.”

“So what?”

He walked off. I waited for Spitsbergen to walk over and force me out.

In the hall I saw Beverly Claire. I imagined what Roland would say if I were him, gawking towards her with a pulp in my mind, and she turned and looked up from her armful of literature and fell into my being, and I all I said was, Whats your life like, Beverly Claire? And I smiled like Roland does and sought her sappy source. She smiled and lust came out of her like syrup in stages

VAST oddities of liquor settle in my soil, stirring the dust in the fish tank, shells of seeds in my zipper, sedated menstrual wings soaring under private recollections, a jazz buzz sequences frothy kisses under 153 watts of of solar bubble bulbs, tongue tangled in hairs friction, trees and lights of finished absence whiz by like transparent transient thoughts behind glass yet the Moon smiles from his static throne just the same, behind all those cold empty miles of emptiness, contemplating  all the dust we stir just to spend an hour doing something not even our feet will recall, but O all the miles behind us, all the oceans in between me and my next sigh.

THE pages that our bottles contain have yet to be written, typed, or either swallowed -- she is an audiophile atop a zephyrs breath, plucking all the polychromatic hairs from her insipid Christmas sweater, a wretched feather-brained grin engulfing her chin, a savory dish her kiss, all music left to be tuned and ciphering words spellbind our private spines -- Beverly Claire had saporous thighs that stalked the heavenly skies  -- Even AFTER death (afterbirth) there will still be the skies to gaze in dream by proxy, for even crustaceans have sorrows in the blacks of the blue sky's mirror.

            LOST in dawns afterbirth --  a pool of plasma fills the void, along with blood sweat tears and wine, severed strings of golden brass hairs waft down her chasm --  the suns glory defies the presence of gasoline in our veins and water in clocks and urine in stereos and radios (soulless machines always in scene)  --  choking on sand in Berkeley is my only memory of when I was alive, never really awake often enough to find out that I was actually asleep...

Author's Note

Vaporous. Read this and read it again. Savor the saporous vapor.

Reviews

[Calliope]

What words. I love yours.

[Ovi-Odiete]

This is so endowed.... ..
You are a gift.

[Chadvonswan]

Thank you very much for reading, Ovi

[Ada]

This formed this cloud of congested feelings in my chest and I have exactly no idea what feelings those were. I certainly held vapor in my lungs, a vapor that made my heart feel intangible for the moment I took to read this. Your words were certainly transcendental to my organs.

[Chadvonswan]

I write from the gut; there's ink in my veins, and I excrete black vapor from my pores.
Thanks for reading, I appreciate the commentary,

[Bella]

Oooh, I enjoyed reading this. I felt a sense of moon-like imagery and literary hallucinations. As well as receiving poetic personification, there was also reality in this (although it is a dream, I think), the feelings of the persona maybe? Anyways, the style of writing is also unique, and works too. Roland also seems like an intriguing character. Ah, it's lovely

[Chadvonswan]

It wasn't too oddly proportioned ?? Haha thanks a lot for reading this seemingly experimental piece. I appreciate the kind words (:

[Bella]

I didn't find it oddly proportioned, I found it quite quirky and it really worked. No problemo

[Gaston Villanueva]

After reading this I looked up and felt out of place. Like I absorbed into a new reality and spat out into normal life again when it was over. It had a great hypnotic rhythm and i like how you incorporated Flagstaff as well as mentioning a classic in the likes of Choking on Sand in Berkeley. Very nice bro

[Chadvonswan]

thanks man, I'm glad you read and reviewed. im trying to expand those fictional universes (: