PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Feeling faint in my gloomy bedroom, I make these marks to distract me from the secret, nuanced rhythm of tunes that pull me in with questionable enchantments. There needs to be something said about all this vague overruling of strange, surreal nature, being presented as alluring portals into different dimensions, all twirling adrift in one mind. I go with the flow, bobbing my head in seas of ruby lava. The aliens have attacked and torn reality asunder to complete chaos.

I’ve reached a dead end on Trickery Trail, soliloquizing in communion with my friendly entities. But if I observe life for a moment, I receive answers to act upon the various influences I am around; they perpetuate to the future and back unless repentance is had. And so, I sit here and sip my coffee, hoping for miracles. The magic computer assists my writing experience with its sharp wit. Meditation will soon make my mind shine in a similar fashion.

Learning a new language through the practiced intuition of love and peace is the best way to go about such cultural exchanges. There is more to life than a mere diagnoses of ignorance. Don’t you feel controlled by the supreme strings of a phantom puppeteer? This is no cult. Don’t sacred syllables have a higher, hieroglyphic meaning, scribbled on the ribs of poison mushrooms? But be warned, spores burst into confusion. I am going to pour another coffee into my batman mug.

As I said, the computer is a good little robot. Sometimes I find it difficult to cope, but I remain strong. This journey of life has shot me through a ceaseless orbit of wicked worlds, until the sallow star finally destroys our corporeal universe. God help me. The melodies are becoming monotonous. I need to escape the loud sound of traffic whizzing by right outside my window. But alas I cannot. I am just another doomed prisoner of societal strife. Castaway, castaway!

Yeah, this whole community that my mom and me moved to is made up of like 85% Indian folks (a rough approximation); you know, people who come from the country India, not to be confused with the Native American Indians. Smoking is not allowed on balconies, by rule of the people who run the apartments, so whenever it is tobacco time, I am forced to hide behind a wall on ours. Yeah, I feel like a Sadhu, hiding and smoking in my holy cave, clueless about politics and stuff.

While walking with her, Molly, my dog, led me to a bush swarming with calm bees. It was a lovely little scene. Then from beyond, gypsies called to me. “Hey, come this way man!” a seductress sang. I wanted to keep the fine linen I wear, so I dared not risk it being stole and me left nude by following the blurred voice of a common thief. It turned out to be the odd plants communicating with me. Anomalies come from nowhere, like wave after wave of surprising fan mail. What of it?

Writing is starting to steal my soul. And it is all more or less nothing but raving nonsense. It still somehow manages to bubble my brains in such a way that results in a subtle sense of satisfaction of small, accumulative accomplishments, like ship by ship soars by full of joyous crew hailing, “The eyes of our fiery sun dost not deceive, man, if only should ye believe!” And then they disappear into the crimson sunset horizon in their eternal chase of transcendent reveries.

Mommy, Mommy, look what I wrote today, as word upon word tirelessly towers in a dust whirl!