624 results

Hypomania   From the mountains, I heard :   Sensei wreck sheet  carbonate surprise,    Alabaster polyester porcelain demise,   Hooligans west end mercurial promises of velveteen slipshod railroad mechanics.   And from the deserts, I saw:   Lately Sally supposes surreal standoffs in the Mexican arroyo,  dreams of salmon clouds at sunset before the puzzled braille vested crones who prefer tobacco smoked from long pipes, generally at the campfire undergoing a campus wide reform of the sloop footed diamond merchants from reno who enjoy assorted multicolor jellybeans in a glass jar on a tarnished silver platter that revolves around the dynamo alleyways somewhere in Brooklyn that passenger pigeons carry various messages to the oriental kings of Lebanon,  who while smoking hashish from obsidian blenders obtain permission from the logical outcomes of Texas sheriff’s,  whose bronze stars are testimony to the virtue of underground smugglers from Detroit who carry whipsaw chain mail forecasts of elemental snow, that blankets the alleyways of allergic sunshine princesses who Cary six golden rings embedded of surprising rubies that sparkle as eloquent as elanor when she recites the average congress of Buffalo circuses whose tents are multicolored with ice cream and velour,  satin ribbed Bannisters of the napoleanic dessert forecasts,  mentioned by somber newscasters often on channel six, on a TV sitting on dusty brown carpet that Molly needs to vacuum,  before she practices ballet while listenjg to flamenco Texas trumpets, that are golden but dented as proof of the eventual circumstance related to Nixon serving lukewarm oatmeal to two goals named Betty who would rathet be elsewhere but the train hasn’t arrived,  stuck somewhere in Idaho before Christmas icicles eat dizzying amounts of mercantile forecasts of the eventually Mason jars filled with marble of barometric colors that are bland to the eye that hurts bit isn’t real but in the imagination of fourteen sporting huntsman who pursue something they would rather not think about unless it comes back to haunt them before the November marshmallows bloom beside the poisoned creek where vehicles go to die having exhausted all diesel from the stack of…   Medications .   I think   I think that The seroquel is starting to work, thank God,  so I can get some sleep and my brain will let me rest and I won’t be compelled to write and write    For   I hope I can get some sleep, and my thoughts slow down. Too fast for logic,   The Medications,  slower, a little harder to think,  but yeah I think they are kicking in.   When you close your eyes and can’t stop seeing , rationality deserts you leaving a confused landscape of a fractal kaleidoscope of irrelevant thoughts arising from the frontal cortex in all probability due to severance of sense somewhere else while the thalmus stubbornly ignores the screams of melatonin far from home of the confused pineal, undoubtedly calcified by the government,  intent on keeping us locked in a matrix so we can feed the reptile archon who enjoy the culinary delight of various vicissitudes of misfortune and woe, us being farmed by prophets for prophet who prophes to propose that salamander registries of the cash register black buttons , but missing various letters from aunt Edna who sends her best regards, with chocolate valentines day cards made from red construction paper protected by left handed green safety scissors issued in second grade, by a matronly attendant offering grandmotherly kind regards, sifting through the silhouettes of earthquakes that shatter the dark tower flanked by sickly yellow lighting by a God whose name we all forgot, who is bored with the tapestries of clouds made of wool , soft as pillows.   Sleep? Sheep beep and heap, steep oblique essence of moronic suitcases filled with the debris of yesterday’s newspapers.       Time for sleep, if I can.