Miro voids
Posted: August 13th, 2013, 2:51 am
I want to lose the religious umbrella in the desert
because he had to find rocks in his clocks
you can't pick the locks on a barrel cactus
way down by the dead carnival of the sun
the stars were falling like... like blue dice
into the ocean of fortune teller charms
she spreads her arms of hula hoops on fire
along the false amusement rides to nowhere
a sense of being lost amid the crummy facades
the little shooting gallery sideshows of cotton
candy freeways through fingernail polish signs
late at night conversations of lovers and lunatics
we arrived in a copy of Kafka footprints disappearing
there is nowhere for the voyant to go except inside
the yellow parchment pages of waves, turning
inside the organ grinder old smoky films grind up
lanterns laughing in broken alleys of sentences
whose snaking mysterious hypnotic meanings
weave in and out of a grotto of grammar and glamor
repeating hidden ill logic into the body of the gun
this was how fun was invented in a Ferris wheel of chance
how the dog fight biplanes of by gone stacks of alphabets
find their way into our everyday reality feasts of numbers
we count backwards and read the ghost like words, hoots
in the dark language of Miro voids of color and silence...
plunged into the mist of hallucinatory nonsense, we get hep
to the sidewalks of endless floating luminous letters of zero
Miro mocks our chalk board minds of impossible equations
the depths of my poet soul sunken in drunken boats, cities
floundering on the cheap chest of drawers in the, all hope
left aside, in the clown assassin hotel of forgotten dreams
the matchstick lit another cigarette of dumb luck novel's hovels
the communication is always the same, the poem, is always
the same poem...written in a thousand different days, and
casting upside down frowns, the coffee grounds of grand delusions, ends
the poet died like an old newspaper bled on on the bottom of the world
his Egyptian like breath calling all the sleep walking jazz like voices
into the forbidden tomb of opium poppy afterlives, the poet slept in
the moon goes bellow in the Bardo basements of endless riddle's eddy
of starlight in the chambers of haunted visions on each swell of eternity
blinking archaic maze of feeling wandering around graveyards of art
looking for memories of long forgotten voyages of the other reason of time
because he had to find rocks in his clocks
you can't pick the locks on a barrel cactus
way down by the dead carnival of the sun
the stars were falling like... like blue dice
into the ocean of fortune teller charms
she spreads her arms of hula hoops on fire
along the false amusement rides to nowhere
a sense of being lost amid the crummy facades
the little shooting gallery sideshows of cotton
candy freeways through fingernail polish signs
late at night conversations of lovers and lunatics
we arrived in a copy of Kafka footprints disappearing
there is nowhere for the voyant to go except inside
the yellow parchment pages of waves, turning
inside the organ grinder old smoky films grind up
lanterns laughing in broken alleys of sentences
whose snaking mysterious hypnotic meanings
weave in and out of a grotto of grammar and glamor
repeating hidden ill logic into the body of the gun
this was how fun was invented in a Ferris wheel of chance
how the dog fight biplanes of by gone stacks of alphabets
find their way into our everyday reality feasts of numbers
we count backwards and read the ghost like words, hoots
in the dark language of Miro voids of color and silence...
plunged into the mist of hallucinatory nonsense, we get hep
to the sidewalks of endless floating luminous letters of zero
Miro mocks our chalk board minds of impossible equations
the depths of my poet soul sunken in drunken boats, cities
floundering on the cheap chest of drawers in the, all hope
left aside, in the clown assassin hotel of forgotten dreams
the matchstick lit another cigarette of dumb luck novel's hovels
the communication is always the same, the poem, is always
the same poem...written in a thousand different days, and
casting upside down frowns, the coffee grounds of grand delusions, ends
the poet died like an old newspaper bled on on the bottom of the world
his Egyptian like breath calling all the sleep walking jazz like voices
into the forbidden tomb of opium poppy afterlives, the poet slept in
the moon goes bellow in the Bardo basements of endless riddle's eddy
of starlight in the chambers of haunted visions on each swell of eternity
blinking archaic maze of feeling wandering around graveyards of art
looking for memories of long forgotten voyages of the other reason of time
