I’ve spent hours,
falling without the fear i’ll break my back.
Is it right to touch the brake, feel the whitewash when you’re looking through disdain-specked glasses that whisper: dreams are immaterial, you are immaterial, this is immateriality.
Now as we sidestep into life i’ve begun to notice. Is it too late to touch the bridle, feel the reigns only to know they’ve already snapped?
Rhetoric is easy when you’ve taken the hypodermic punch; slow goes it through your ego, now rammed against the glass in a Glasgow smile that says ‘ohh well isn’t this dandy?’
Fuck the haters, we’re all judges with antonyms for speeches, crystal balls hanging below our breeches; just looking for a prickle of sensation because we’ve lost our capacity to breathe in one space.
Steady goes the river flow but not so steady is the mind that shakes like a tambourine, vibrating me to sleep morning, night, morning, night, mourning until my eyes show a film of translucent memory, decorated only by the bright gleam of light telling me this is real.
petals are rusting and the metal is curling. I’m barricaded in a Dali dystopia, uncertain and blinding, day cut open by the chime of a wooden machete that strikes 1 at morning and 3 at night.