Lengthening the horizon, debris commences
astronomically, like painted dodecahedrons magnetically induced through
immediate moments of hypocritical delusions otherwise mentioned as lingering
afterthoughts.
Solidification of the earth and sky, blending blue
skies with the blackening flirtation smitten by the acupuncture points of the
densest night. Pilfering septets from kings uncrowned. Dangling hippodromes,
stretching as far as the dilated pupils can comprehend, vigilantly cling to the
forgotten expressions, otherwise known as the finalization of the askance void.
Drinking from the enigmatic cup of lavender while
paying closest attention to all the future steins congregating upon the
smallest ledge of real estate; these soldiers are filled with the most brilliant
confidence, the most exploratory brilliance of purpose even as their insides
vibrantly coagulate their plasmatic contents—coloring the panorama with a
unique combination of artistic flamboyancy.
Here revolve the vivid portraitures—reds, as they ascend most pleasantly
from having merged and swirled so decadently with the deepest triangulations of
what would otherwise be predestined to be known as plagiaristic murals of obsidian
sunsets and decentralized feelings of overture; spinning, and spinning, the
sensation of tingling numbness enters as would any self-respecting party
crasher, even after being labeled as the man who self-loathing was first named
after. Enter the roll call, the soft and ever-echoic resemblance of slow-motion
verbal typography—the lasting impression, a salted wound hidden conveniently by
the cloaked marauders first hailing from the frozen lands most north of where
the contemporary maps fail to define. Had there ever before been a more
contrived notion of perfect balance, then that pristine moment, the one located
immediately before the compounding principles of exhaustion sound their toll
unto the hallowed morn, light would know nothing of where the scars first
appeared. The days of the calendar
streamline across the foreheads of the silent.
All thoughts careen. All dreams
and fluctuations multiply. Every
hereafter is after here, an alienated mutation, one where the tongue is far too
ashamed to attempt any retracing of root causes, any semblance of recounting
what perhaps transpired while the present shell we call our physical limitation
lay dusted over by that most subliminal of curtain calls, is internally known
only as an altered fragmentation of a fragment still-birthed once before. We then conjugate our assumptions; each
non-verbally aware of the others desires for gelid anonymity, all the while
remaining reverently comatose, both in spirit and of stature. But still, we
smile, for we continued to breath rhythmically.
Ignorant of the finite details and the navigational circumference
connecting the exterior and interior, deeply from within a euphoric treasure
trove of experience coddles us through devotional retrospection, fore the
tender flesh is unable to object at the present podium when not prepared. Therefore, only one true conclusion can be
claimed: Calamity, too, was once a
blessed child, born as the sons and daughters both, of some other landscape
upon some variant precipice of strophe.
Over at D'Verse, Karin Gustafson(aka Manic Daily), is hosting this week's Poetics. She opened up the floor for delving into the many meanings once can take into account when working with the word Trip. I, of course, went with a more abstract prose style here, which is only one of the many, many avenues one could have taken. Be sure to stop by the pub and see just how many different directions the poets of D'Verse venture down.
