At the bottom of the pond
original poetry
Drilling through gristle and vegetation
Are maelstroms carving subtle rills through
My psyche of rutilated quartz.
The potions long worn off,
I face the dull-glowing city sky
And the fumes of its insanity
With a circuit smile.
I tap the symbol stamp pad
With slender fingers that
Know well their mortal tenor.
Here I am under the surface of
Thin, colorless, unviscous ocean:
A flying fish cudgeled by the whims
Of the universal skin's paroxysms.
Color-between-the-lines of bland seasons,
Child skipping rope and bruising its knee,
Overripe fruit with tar spots,
Vancant hotel or the
Starport of a civilization
Long dead with its paint peeling.
The Not I Am knowing its insignificance,
Writing obsolete reminders to be posted
First thing in the morning.
Typewriters spewing reverse smoke,
Stories being unwritten (plotlines, my fibre lineage)
People becoming unborn (the auburn cynics & saints of moss)
Love being unmade (diamond in the slag)
Meaning being unlost (paths down the vicious slopes)
Smoke transublimates into text.
No one will read the tomes of glass.
No one will sigh the tears of agony.
No one will seek the rifts of cloud,
Except the swimmer at the bottom
Of the cosmogonal pool.
Written by
2/11/18
.
with photos by
.1 — "Angel" by Happepanda [cropped]
2 — "Angel" by Happepanda [flipped & edited]
3 — "Pacific glow" by Jasonwilde [flipped]
4 — "Midnight glow" by Trichardsen
