Art: Livestock Steve Bartlett. Far Right Image Michael Cheval
Where do dreams go once performed?
I fold marbles into scraps of sunlight,
thunderstruck and intermittent they collide.
The doors of the mind
slide from side to side
according to their conceit.
I take an empty book
and weep islands into the spine.
There is a beast in me,
that is both profound and docile
it neither sleeps nor rouses
but waits patiently
for the universe to undress.
I have too many answers.
Direction-less and without construct
I would never knowingly ask.
I follow each parachute
as it plummets to the ocean
sick with air, sick with inertia.
She practices voodoo by the seashore.
I strip down to the allegro, to the interstices,
to the hollows greedy with vibration.
I am reality, the application, the seer
pregnant and heavily veiled.
Where do words go when
they’ve outlived their sentiment?
I slip surreptitiously from
one constellation to the next
nirvana split and voluptuous like a peach.