Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Dag stood there like a matchstick
a match that was about to be flicked
on the head to burst into blue flame
then lovely yellow flame that became
his aura, surrounded him like an
angel of fire

but now his match was being used
to burn the bottom of a spoon
an ugly twisted spoon filled
with a strange brown powder

visualize the ungodly brown powder
now with tap water to bubble and boil
so to make it into a seething vile liquid
of cities and desolate landscapes
train yards and hovels, dank joints

it bubbles and boils that junk of genius
to a lake of hell a swimming pool of heaven
and high rise paradise is just a shot away
is a puddle of poetry a pond of frogs
and childhood reflections, a bath of snakes
and rubber ducks, they always duck into
the bathroom for a fix of films and amusements
and other terrors and totality

picture the bubbling and froth
of ideas, centuries, mirrors of Lizard kings
and carnivals of debauchery, pillage and pills
each bubble holds other views of carnage
and sex orgies, holds jewels of Jesus
and Satan wrapped around each other

in history, in carvings on churches, in stains
of shame and guilt, and stained glass surface
of the now calm umber colored juice of poppy
sitting in a moment of timeless wonder and
hope of pain erased and the flood of nightmares
now nirvana and nothingness, total bliss
oblivion, the sleep of a thousand years
Afghanistan erased too

dag flicks the match on the ground coming
out of the subway, and writes it down in his
mental notebook, thinking of a song he
chanced to hear in the tunnel of love
a long ride into darkness and her hair

smelling of nightingales and the Nile perfume

i won't pretend to understand junk, but it seems to have limited potential against a backdrop of all that space junk and life..