The Feeling is Mutable

I miss the blue and gold of you.
I miss the flesh and bone of you.
I miss the present moments
stretched into a waking dream with you.
Inside of your circumference
I want nothing but your presence,
and do I dare to mention that I want to breathe your essence?
I so miss the perfect weight of you,
cheek inside of palm and in my head I am debating you.
A hand around my throat says the feeling here is mutual
But here i sit alone, so I guess they're all so mutable.
I miss the naked truth of you,
The good of feeling pain with you
and if you reconsider I will climb up to the moon for you.
The sound of your elation does
Empower my creation
and the Universe I travel is awaiting destination.

Digital Religion

Create skin and bones ethereal,
Breath and emotion corporeal,
And sensation: magical vibration.

Pulses blend in timed
Syncopation, while
Epidermal mind meld steels me with elation.

Eat me with your iris in a
Blue-gold incantation.
And Taste me with your fingers,
Scripting digital religion.

Tease me out with the right amount of pressure,
Crowbar my rib-cage
And crawl inside the fissure.

Now--
Oceanic calm in a firm embrace
is granting me safety upon release,

And with release
You may breathe me formless,
Gifted with presence
And divinity shameless.

Derry

My bones took an unexpected turn that day in Derry.
First it was a subtle pinch,
followed by an aching thump,
and finally I melted in a puddle next to my broken heart.
Stories of remorse, regret, terror and shame.
How can one tiny place hold so much bleakness
in the folds of a centuries-old memory?
I wonder
Does that little girl
in her pink leopard print
feel the impact of her city's black and white-ness
it's us or them-ness?
Does her education these days involve lessons of
No Surrender or Trial by Fire?

stream

It's been an awful long while since I put pen to page
for the sake of putting pen to page
and it's not about thoughts,
but more of an inclination being inner-directed by that thing that flows through when the monkey-mind takes a vacation and leaves an opening to a higher purpose,
consciousness minus all the riff-raff of the hum-drum
and all the dumb dumb of the mind-numb
because the world is a bit-thumb
and I'm a chipped tooth
looking for a sensory deprivation experience through extra-sensory overload
and if you want to feel something real then I suggest you pass the test and move on to a new creation
in which all parties participate in an elocution-execution of
extra-terrestrial proportions and
if the vocational training of body and mind does not deign it appropriate to let spirit join in
then the cosmic joke is inward-directed and
we're all left wondering what happened to the
piece-meal-meal-ticket and sent searching for a
sensory migration to more hospitable climactic degradation because
me plus you equals everything and nothing and the space in-between and
I'm teeming with more reason as moments blend together like a seamstress hard at work,
stitching reality like there's no tomorrow,
because there is no tomorrow
and I don't really exist (outside of my own imagination).
How do you imagine me?
Are we dreaming,
or am I screaming because my self-electrocution is a painful evolution from old into new and animal into spiritual dimension where vibration is key and density is relative to the angle of attack. Examination depends on the sensitivity of sights unseen
in a world unclaimed
by a higher purpose.
A brightness is un-consiously half-felt beneath the demons in our collective chest--
Demons who fight to break surface and bathe their faces in the light of day,
to be revealed as shadow elements, play-pals banished to a corner for misbehavior deemed unsightly one day and self-defining the next.