Flying Lotus

Dawn creeps up on me. The hand is a ball gag. The eye cannot be deceived when it's looking into my rose garden mouth, when I change my mind and religiously think about what I'm going to say. In my silence I am a ball of wondering on this Ferris Wheel of hope. I smoke and drink so much I want to be sick. I taste the chloroform, poison ink on my lips. We couldn't be closer, but still there is a mountain between us. Comets and sins and rape separating us, water washing over us, sea green ocean floors swallowing us in dreams of sex and torture. The trepidation prevents me, no lights switched on. I feel a collision in my homeless bones, moving onwards, wings upwards.  

Today I took a photo of myself and felt like I was drowning. Pinned to the underneath of your breath, I am floating but I don't feel alive. Drinking as the rain hits my window and the sky begins to turn grey. I am conversant with moths. I speak to them when they arrive and offer them tea, things that they like. Handshakes and awkward glances. We have more in common with headless deers and godless creatures than we don't. When we're numb and we can't feel, and the world is so black it feels like there's no point, the light is pulverized. Blinded by hindsight, indefinitely surprised by the blue shadows in the sky. Our words collect dust in envelops.  Unopened perfume and porcelain bodies through telescopes. Pellucid cries of ballyhoo sent to Coventry grow the biggest voice, profane and somewhere wanting you to look in my eyes. Memory and death is second hand nature, the truth tucked under the skin. My 3 a.m. saviour. Instant black coffee, O roasted beans. The iron lecture is a thin line, head facing the wet ground. The grey sky is raining hard. With rambling words, in a cloudless state of life, galloping darkness holds me until our stars meet.