Dreamcatchers? No need.
We've plundered a sick
Manual from the dives we've taken
titled
Dream Symposium III:
What to Do
Once You're Down There.
We were waiting for the tenth hour
to diminish itself
when the abrupt, familiar longing
for the following morning
worked its way down my spine...
Or was that Up?
The way wreckage looks so
Peaceful
after a storm:
I had that in mind.
The long, dark hall
ahead of me
made me a bit of a
hamster, hilariously
without reprieve.
I flip through the Manual,
unsure... where it ends or starts,
for starters. Holographic aids
beside jealous limericks,
forlorn games of X' and O's.
Despite
the whispered urging in my ear,
I am unable to locate a legend
for this sort of map... the key
was in the tree,
but that tree got hacked...
there is no hope in searching for paths.
I have become
somewhat
of a pathological
path hunter.
Underneath the bridge buckled with locks,
the river runs dry
and twists into steel,
moving shit
from one end
of the country
to the other.
It looked familiar,
the clutter of irony. Like
sizzling snowflakes on my tongue
while the smoke encroaches,
glittering... killing us
glittering.
We know what's across the
tracks: ringing
at every hour of the day.
That must be why we dwell here,
instead of where there's endless ringing.
How could you live with it?
I left the manual on the bridge,
where the distant orange haze
of Minneapolis will bathe it.
In the morning,
will it be
Dream Symposium IV: ???
Out of another paper crypt,
the story of a man and woman
told as if it was the first
lodged in my throat.
I cried a little
because I saw—I could see
in the stir of moods
and knew from those words
that the man was me.
The cracks in my voice
are entirely forced
and for theatrical benefit.
The rug and the ottoman
and the radical electric fungus
growing on every piece of furniture
is for the benefit of my soul.
I rise from the sea confused,
feeling quite bad
behind my knees.
The crunch of the ice
as I wander
will be the song that plays
for when I am lowered
into my freshly snowed over grave.
We've plundered a sick
Manual from the dives we've taken
titled
Dream Symposium III:
What to Do
Once You're Down There.
We were waiting for the tenth hour
to diminish itself
when the abrupt, familiar longing
for the following morning
worked its way down my spine...
Or was that Up?
The way wreckage looks so
Peaceful
after a storm:
I had that in mind.
The long, dark hall
ahead of me
made me a bit of a
hamster, hilariously
without reprieve.
I flip through the Manual,
unsure... where it ends or starts,
for starters. Holographic aids
beside jealous limericks,
forlorn games of X' and O's.
Despite
the whispered urging in my ear,
I am unable to locate a legend
for this sort of map... the key
was in the tree,
but that tree got hacked...
there is no hope in searching for paths.
I have become
somewhat
of a pathological
path hunter.
Underneath the bridge buckled with locks,
the river runs dry
and twists into steel,
moving shit
from one end
of the country
to the other.
It looked familiar,
the clutter of irony. Like
sizzling snowflakes on my tongue
while the smoke encroaches,
glittering... killing us
glittering.
We know what's across the
tracks: ringing
at every hour of the day.
That must be why we dwell here,
instead of where there's endless ringing.
How could you live with it?
I left the manual on the bridge,
where the distant orange haze
of Minneapolis will bathe it.
In the morning,
will it be
Dream Symposium IV: ???
Out of another paper crypt,
the story of a man and woman
told as if it was the first
lodged in my throat.
I cried a little
because I saw—I could see
in the stir of moods
and knew from those words
that the man was me.
The cracks in my voice
are entirely forced
and for theatrical benefit.
The rug and the ottoman
and the radical electric fungus
growing on every piece of furniture
is for the benefit of my soul.
I rise from the sea confused,
feeling quite bad
behind my knees.
The crunch of the ice
as I wander
will be the song that plays
for when I am lowered
into my freshly snowed over grave.
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