Perfectly momentous

If anybody wanted to know the delicate turnings of a wishful mind, with all curiosity and no unfelt concern, the burden would fly back, and open I feel. I feel to find the open place in a hollow chamber, a little floating spot in the middle. I create chambers myself through my willingness to create chambers. A bird is released. I tremble in a pool of wonderful static as I am held, naked. So you gasp, because close within the treasured wonders of your felt parameters is a man, held open like a bird to the sky. I remember your young mind flickering, and a small measure of theatrical romantics. I am the fantasy and the conjurer at once, building worlds of sand and smoke, leading you on, not knowing it. I am a concept in perfect folded bewilderment. I am flames. Flames immeasurable forcing the night and dark away, keeping you near, but not too near. May you also burn, while my waters cool you. I am flowing. I am birdsong, and batcry and bumble. I am swift and breathy, expansive. I am held, firm, and nested, tangled into the contours, notched, set. I am a broken rock that water comes through. See what I mean? Nothing and everything happens at the same time, and I am looking for you always. Be a lover, o kind one, o kind earthen love. Burn with me, hot and full, and rest with me on the wind like a fragrance, then gently descend with mist across the mountain, to be held, in warmth and shelter, by loving arms. Today I am full of poetic longing. I make gestures, to in this way possibly find myself, to remember what I simply am, and not to pause, except in the way of natural magic to flow up as if the body is descending through, and down like water as if the body is floating up. Not of this probably means anything. Words get made and released every moment one billion times over. I could say anything. And I know what I am doing, sleeper. I know your heart is a breaker. I know you eat marshmallows for breakfast and do dishes with goggles on and hum quietly and only think of lines from movies. To this means I am a beacon to you. In the quiet night I am a humming beacon, thinking a lot about the circular nature of things, and being not myself as much, but really just a transparent point of light in a field of infinite possibility. Nevertheless I continue. Someone said this is the main thing is to continue. Whatsoever happens anyways is less important, how do they see what they know, repetition, concept, feature melange, the coldest brink, and wonderment. I met a woman, I met a man, I saw an old friend, I called my mother. Everyone always asks the same thing, all the time, without remorse; I asked you the same thing too. What are you looking for? I am looking for everything! I am looking for YOU! I am looking for this. This this this. This. Haha! Pointless banter. Oh, no, not pointless. Pointy, perhaps, pointed, pointing, certainly pointish, and banter be beautiful, become someones something so I can see straight, swallow, step forwards, feel free, and fall asleep.

Opening the Hollow Spark

Forever a slippery dream fell backwards into only itself. I make gestures, usually towards the unknown, to make free the whole empty blossom of energetic distortion, like milk into the black water; I make a folded paper city to explore with a force uncommon. Millions of purplish channels form, holes in the static sheet, and I forget meaning. Together in a tangled swarm, reveling, unraveling filaments. I observe you coming, notice something, use my head as a beacon, reason out something like you are, to continue breaking myself entirely open. Concentric bent circles of delicate static blanket the surface, in swirled, spiraled, curling fractals. Cracked open blocks of solid rock, a flipping of soft switches inside a warm room. People huddled around the glowing ember, a heartbeat. Toward the future fast we travel, while into the past our future selves delve, coinciding at the one true point, the origin, the present moment, first dimension, now. I hold my breath, a moment, and release into the intricate elaborate expansive field of infinite oscillations. Folded wings, songs of cicadas, a deepening light, bright chamber, hollow spark. I am a new bird, a soul healer, a singer, a song. I feel my way to your angelic presence, the awakening of our hearts through loving, knowing, deeply returning to the earth.

wierdly lollipopping

I figured as much. When the concert opened I fell forwards into it can you see? Love is a constant melody unfolding rolling pendulum. I feel weightless and kindred, forgotten like dreams swiftly departing. Covering my eyes, making gestures, I form two chambers in which I am placed; the deep night, and of course the lemon bright daylight. We would fold forever in this sequence like two colors, I lean against you expectantly, waiting for a quiet enough pause...feeling my way forwards. I know you already ! Think of it, pause. I feel better when the colors are colliding, liquid flows into another vacancy left behind by previous liquid. I am going to submerge myself in warm enough waters to remember the day I was held within a mother's womb. One day I am going to leave this place, I know. I hope there I find something comfortable enough to remind me of her warmth. Exactly what I need, perfectly encircling wordblossoms falling in spaces connected through obscurity. I weirdly stumble, and recover. Things fall in and out of place. Masks are lifted and replaced. A flying demon explains everything. Shoulders back, wings tucked away, I form a bond with only the unknown, anxious and alone. I become a nest and tell my song to the wind. We are children, know this, we are only children.

everything first

today is coming out of my head. I make little noises through my teeth. Birds continue singing me to sleep while I witness an everychanging planet of continuous rhythm. Become a little tiger that jumps up out of the pockets of drifting wind, wild and smiling. I opened a box into the past creaking, the wound and boundless layers of sound symphonic melodic percussive recursive curtains and found you. You are an eater of form, makes all thought seem meaningless. I feel around for something in the dark, fumbling weirdly in the warmth and quiet, and I startle even myself with wonderful errors. I make a tiny swallow and imagine fourteen minutes of useful and beautiful musical and linguistic lullabies.