Does the continuity of life and the enigmatic yet simple confidentialities of life, hidden away of illusions of illusions, to float away in a lost vaccuum of the mysteriousness of thoughts tucked away we don't know where, chromacity of them also harmonic. That place in space which is known, but not certain, or certain yet not known. Is that where it all drains to, a sort of rotating point of vertigo existence? All of our drainings, events, happenings, drowned and drained and confined into a rotary line wash of the already? Perhaps that's the feeling of draining I get from time to time, of slipping out of everything I've ever known, displaced from everything in reality, floating and sinking into a silky concentratable makeup patch of space and time and beauty and all things which cease to be.
The placement of dynamic worlds of surrealty always pose as a sort of alien enigma to me, draped among fuzzy communications. How far can communication go, anyway? From time to time, fairly often in fact, I get another piece of imagery dissolved into my tube of a mind, (perhaps the circuitry of the mind is a network of mesh tubes.) of a black, foreboding night, set by a pier, and then moving vantage point of clear angled perspective, of a clear field. It pans toward a boat in the distance, the communication is there, in a distant buzznoise over a plastic walky talky speaker, which is being attended to by a panicking pilot. What he's saying I can't quite discern, but you know it's foreboding to look upon. He's in a sort of airplane or boat control room. All of a sudden it's back at the pier vantage point again, a saddening red light in the distance gradually brightens until the entire scene switches off into a sort of invoking nostalgia, sadness. It reminds me, for some reason, of a night when I was quite small and at the city pool I lived by at the time, my father and I stayed there quite a while into dark. I just remember being struck by the surrounding lights as well as the milk jug dancers at one end of the pool. but that distant red light, softly flickering off in the distance, with its implicity, synchronizes with me an evoked sadness with that memory, a memory to be experienced again and again for quite some time, since linearity is an illusion of minds that merge and smear in a band.
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Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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