Knowing While I'm Sleeping

Struck with a bolt of paralysis. In a cycle of thinking. I may as well be a frozen lake, unable to move in this cold frame. I cut myself from red tape, rubbing salt into the paper cuts. The night unfolds and the dark clouds leave when launched neurons in the neocortex are concurrent. It's almost as if the lesion on the hypothalamus never existed, now I'm on the pathway to somewhere bright, branching out in the same way as my thoughts. Cut off from the radiating  neurotransmitters. The chassis network is in an anabolic state. All I can see is the black of my eyelids, and a calm quietness is pouring through my body like a wave, like wine. Protoplasm. I am cellophane. Skin and bones. In the Heavens and in the valleys where dew hangs. I land on axioms, but I'm a sceptical doomwatcher.  

At the sound of water where I threw away my heart I pick cherries a weekend too late. Washing away the eclectic taste of the solar eclipse. I like the way the rain falls, and the air blows, and how the cold nights feel, and I no longer think about making wrong moves on the chess board with a peppery mind. I don't care what anyone thinks. I have my own thoughts and my own opinions, in rows with thorns on them, roses in gardens, I pick them like seashells from a beach, and ignore them when I'm drifting off to sleep. Falling into dreams.

I have no reservations in my head. I've seen the sun set a thousand times before. At an obtuse angle all this time, at the margin of my reality. I imagine the sky tastes as good as mango or pineapple, filled with sucrose. I imagine myself reaching out and touching it like it's a Brazilian plume, and I walk through it's portal on a hill where I re-fill my flagon with euphoria. I peel back the veil, feeling as free as you would driving a motorcycle. I've burnished the chink in my armour, and now it shines like a beacon at sea or the moon at night. Nothing can stop me when I'm in motion, and I can hear the rustling of the leaves, or the birds calling in the trees. I look at chimneys and aircrafts and I can't believe how much I have changed over the years. The metamorphosis. There was a time my responsibilities blew out of the window with the wealthy fug that occupied this hive of activity, on the Holy Week when I seen a pentacle die in a cloudless sky, and a bolt of pain rushed through me, expunging childhood memories sewn into a melting pot. I cried for every forget-me-not, at every milestone. In a field of honey and grain. Liquid moving effortlessly. 

There was a time I felt like I had took my last breath in the summer air, and I would dye my hair blonde, and nefarious hooked mouth parts were jocund in a dusty loft or an audience of applause. With every sober afterthought, every flashback, every swimming alligator in the follicles, I am ten foot deep in mud. Wanting the ice to thaw. Sorry is the face of a kitchen stove, making mouth shapes. Acta non verba. The doyen sleeps on well deserved respect, just like I've anchored myself to the ocean of my nocturnal habits, and every earnest orison has gone unheard. It makes me feel glaikit when the day drags out and I'm in it for the long haul. From the frontier to the bell tower with grapes and vine leaves in my hair. A peanut head eating sweetbread. I see the blue wavelengths, the empty milk cartons. Muzzled complexity. With no voice.      

Will I land in the Valley of the Kings? Will I land in a rift valley? Catching stars with my mouth with every gasp. Will I land distralt in a leap year? There's a stopgap for the ocean placed in my mind, where I put my dreams and forget about them, where I hold vigils, where nothing matters but time, freefalling. 

Winter fires blaze in my eyes. They're worlds I enter with no inhibitions, with no fire extinguisher, where I've drawn boundaries and I am fluent in dreaming. Every time fables leak from the broken socket, at the gold rush, I make pictures of rainy seaside landscapes out of them. In wild, doleful, sweet, vivid moonlit dreams. In endless cloudy puddles of faith. I realise I am hopeless, perplexing and strange. Manifesting. Whispers of life wander where the foliage tumbles and the fog lays low, and red things are flustered for sun. I ink the page with the charred remains of last year, and accidentally broke like a glass alembic. Up here in my head it's dog eat dog. Every solemn thought I have is concerned with the big picture, the grand scheme of things, as if I'm at war with time when I'm awake. Restless with every mistake.

Waterfall brooks roll down elastic vents like church bells. Mountains wearing lace. Hydrogen and oxygen atoms bond together. Water molecules stick to the polar substance. The alcohol dilutes. Independent caterwauls careen. Halfway down the Helter Skelter. Papaya whip seeps through. The Pierrot burns the bibelot, when the carnival comes to a close, when the Buffalo Springfield song dwindles. In a fluorescent downpour. Limping in leather. Umbels sparkle under pressure. I take U-turns into new places I've never been before. In yellow fields of haystacks. Bending backwards. I take off my greasepaint. My ears swell with music of delirium. I salvage what's left of the honeycomb. Nectar in the azimuth. Sleeping in a castle of dreams. 

I have a mean swagger. I sit by the sheep of Dál Riata and understand the lingua franca. We speak about biomolecules, kites high in the sky. We speak about the fifth column and the latest trends. A myriad of petite mountain avens gather in the garden the zaftig succubus seduces the satyr. I filled the quaich with magnesium, in a world of pure imagination. Burning like the Occident. Dragnets catch lost memories along the banks of the shining sky. I drink them like I drink the Wick River. I drink them like all the times I've fucked up, all the Freudian slips. Churchill willows. The Regius professor smiled at the Trappist. Smiles for the cactus. The robin on the white picket fence. Hot colours carry the storm. I watch the ghosts of my house kick over the traces, looking for something. Something magical? Something cryopreserved? Something gone?

Enshrined potshreds are poured from a mill, pouring baldachin. The apricity melts with the last of the snowbroth, with the nightbirds. Tears of the icy bank. Designed like a coat of arms. Sleep holds me in its grip, a body with insomnia, an aphid. So then I'm a gopher, gripped with desolation ahead of the break of the vermilion dawn. I camouflage myself with misconceptions, figments of my distorted imagination. Something not sincere, so flippant, and the sagacious words come and go like hot fires in and out of my ears, replenished with fears. 

First comes the evidence, then there's the sentence. A cobweb over my knee. Why I do not know why I do not recognize. I don't know when I ought to have known where I lost my talisman, when I found myself banished, repudiated. Survivor, Deucalion. Today I tended to my needs. The yellow jacket articulated. The magistrate has spoken. The addiction has emanated. The jar broke at the implication of something foreseen, but the wound has been cut to the gravel. It was almost as if I knew one in a drift would augment, like the debris of adenosine left behind in the brain as you dream. I woke up feeling tired. Oxygen atoms and watermelons trickled through the golden keyhole where I could see the provenance from pitch black heights. I do not look at the situation any differently. I am a shadow of the sun I was. Sewing new fabric onto the facade I created to fool the regret that seeps in after you've sinned. I am nothing but promises and prayers, always on the hunt for a chest of treasure.

I wear the clothes of a gypsy. Putting spinning planets into brown paper bags. The stars shine like pregnant sows, the sky I have considered. Ice caps. Buttered perceptions. I have dreamt of this. I have dreamt of this moment.