Forever More

Stretch me out beneath the starry ocean sky of night time musings and dissolvings in the paintbrush strokes of our vision’s yearnings,

Beneath the infinite expanse of our discarded learnings,

Where I can gaze into the saltshaker of reality’s moviemaker lawn,

And graze on shooting stars that cry into the dawn their crazes of forgotten lusts, and leave effigies of dust behind,

In this great yawning chasm of emptiness we call the skull castle of our mind, Where broken eyelids drape their countries of illusions on the wallpaper of our train-ride,

That remind us all of eventual endings that began before the beginning,

When angel fish were swimming through the gleaming nectar of our conscience

That poured its quicksilver through corridors of selfless rivers,

Before me, or you, or notions of forever, had put their clown clothes on,

And paraded through the desert of a useless purpose.

The oasis of our faceless freedom is here, as it was then, and is always now; Mirage of ageless nothingness imagined as our consciousness.

Always awaking and disintegrating, as a wheel that keeps spinning, like lizard eyelids dissolving in the faded patchwork of the quilt king, seeing inwards to an illusion of all matter, like a love explosion scattered drops of rainbow water through the aqueducts of our fathers,

Through temples of forgotten winged mothers,

Through ornamented pyramids of sphinx like angel mines,

The hieroglyphic prolific creation shrine.

Through any image of the great design.

 

That promises to take you there, where the space between our atoms touches, Where love flies far, upon an armchair in the stars,

And reality unclutches, and unhinges into a dreamscape space of essential energetic particles vibrating in a grand ensemble of interconnected insignificance, the hallelujah of our Krishna’s farting tricks,

Until it blows into the basement of a whitewashed room, into the womb of where our nothingness has been left to assume…nothing but itself.

Now strip me bare, for as long as I dare, to die into the patterned palm work of the sky, like veins of prehistoric tree roots that fly into the fullness of their own voluptuous fruits of sweetness; to blossom in the heart of nothingness; and lap forever more, on empty shores of our eyelids.

And death will die with our I,

And love flies on into the dawn,

Even though we say goodbye.