an image

the moon swoons slowly in its blue loom
listening to crickets dispel their crispy cry.

Snowrrealism

A man? wakes up from the snow, naked.
There is blood in his footsteps.
Someone whistles a baroque tune in the background,
It happens to be the wind.
SHe carries a candle in His/er hand.
The whistling wind puts it out every time.
He pronounces the words of a poem
that speaks of oppression, by a peruvian
author: Cesar Vallejo.
The poem: Los Dados Eternos.
And the whistled song ceases:
God was whistling.
And as this naked being defies god,
with his petty candle in the cold,
he finds in his path a crown of thorns,
and wears it, for what is pain?
if not more pain? the candlewax
falls on his hands and solidifies on his skin,
he further walks, whispering the old poem,
feet bleeding, thorn crown cutting his forehead,
several shots are heard, a scream, he walks on,
he stops to look up at the sun and clouds,
then proceeds to walk into scene two,
where the lover is dead on the cold ground,
and red flowers bloom in his chest, one white rose
in the mouth, and two carnations make the eyes.
the palm lies, face up, the other palm covers the genitals,
the first person places the candle on the open palm,
and lies down beside death to die.

Tonight is a night of insanity.

When my life is set against the length of time,
the entire length of time,
it becomes a particle... insignificant.
It is these instances when i could die
without regret.
--------------------

Of course, it is these instances my mind becomes detached
from reality. Reality states "you have to work tomorrow."
Reality always has a 'tomorrow' for you to consider.
But what is tomorrow? what exactly is tomorrow?

Tomorrow is both the dawn of a new day
and the digging of a thousand fresh new graves.
Tomorrow is the timid expression of Today.
And in passing, it is the dream of Yesterday.

It is nights like these when insanity
takes a twist of reality
and is gently poured into a cup, with ice.
It is a drink called "life on the rocks".
The universe drinks it. Slowly.
and when it gulps it,
some stir and weep, and scream
the word 'unfair'.

But is death a matter of justice?
only the sadists would like to think so
those who condemn at the twitch of an eyebrow
who fiddle with the buttons of their shirts
and curse in whispered, stuttered words.

It is unfair of this mind to think such things,
to negate and deny and doubt truths
to kill hopes and breastfeed uncertainty
into the mouths of the confused.

It is unfair of this mind to think...
and the television takes on a new dimension,
the faeces that flow from the t.v.
that people eat in spoonfuls, visually.
The eyes are two stones that reflect.

Yes. I see it all too clearly,
my eyes have accustomed to the dark.
The reflections on the wall
no longer seem so scary.

It is now tuesday morning,
the very early hours of the morning,
before the larks begin to pray.
Yes. It is a new day,
and I must sleep, and then
work.