Make me work,
for another man’s,
dream.
Dreaming,
of fulfillment,
whilst numb,
and, insentient.
Make me bleed,
sweat, toil, cry,
and, scream.
Screaming,
into a pillow,
stuffed,
with emptiness.
Make me want,
for my needs,
and, need,
for my wants.
Wanting nothing,
but enough dough,
to knead.
Make me insatiably,
thirst for all,
knowledgeable,
fonts.
Fonting illiterate words,
that are unable,
to read.
Break me; into edible smithereens;
to feed your ego.
Break me; into smithereens.
Break me.
My patchwork, blanketed tapestry,
of maudlin melancholy, is;
uncomfortably trapped;
tightly, tucked in, and, staring,
at the inside, of my outside,
or, is it, the outside of my inside?
Pricking the panes, of my soul-destroying,
eyelids.
While praying,
for the luminescent,
Phoenixed beacon,
of level-headed, neutrality,
to become incandescent,
burning brightly,
in the present,
switched on.
Memories make my maudlin melancholy,
weave evocation, with nostalgic fabrics,
spinning universal yarns, of Seanchaí stature; all past;
pastimes, pasta dishes, pastures new discovered, pastures not so green on the otherside experienced, pastiched poems, pastilled aromas, pastille sweets, pastels of watercoloured lives.
All, varying in emotion, strength, sentiment, shape and sizes.
Each and every thread,
intertwined and sewn,
into my self, spirit and soul.
Elucidating knotted,
uncompromising needle,
and thread, bunched,
fibers untangled,
and impressively unfurled,
then eternally, stretched,
and stitched on…
and, on…
and, on…
he’s sewn up,
sore.
and, missing;
something?
some things?
or,
somewhere?
missing.
missing; somewhat?
or, is it, someone?
a jigsaw piece;
minus it’s edge.
a garden hose;
but no hedge.
a windowsill;
without a ledge.
this fascination
with forbidden lust
is an –
amputee –
both arms;
taken;
forsaken.
and, with that being said,
he’s; still;
besotted
with a pair of gloves.
but, nevertheless,
trustily supported
by two good legs.
epiphany;
disregarded.
for, what one lacks,
sore,
one doesn’t
necessarily know
not to need
in these
matters of amour.
and,
regrettably,
one should never
overlook;
what’s beneath,
when able
to take a ride
on
romance’s
intimate see-saw.
nor,
turn their backs
on
true love’s
magnificent stampede;
in boots;
inconsiderately worn.
pious, powered rage;
religion and politics.
Anaesthetised; us.
Take a pew, and, view;
beyond…
Beyond yourself,
beyond the Earth,
beyond the stars,
beyond the galaxies,
beyond the universe.
Viewing, beyond;
what is material,
beyond;
what is imagined,
beyond;
the conscious and subconscious.
Viewing, beyond; what, is and what, is not.
Viewing, beyond; existence.
In doing so, you will find, that; life as we know it, really, is, all relative. Relative to all. Relative to all matter, and, all, that matters. Relative to all that is spawned, whether as a thought, or, as a conscious being. Relative to the Creator, to all that has been created, to all that has the capability to create and to the creative processes, which allow for creativity to exist.
Imagine;
an incessant, indefinite, prismal hall, adorned and inlaid with, ‘the mirrors of creation’. Each and every looking glass projecting reflections from opposite sides. Deeper and deeper, within, the triangular facing juxtapositions, for all of time and space and realities. Immemorial. All introspections, conjured and displayed, extrospectively, for infinity, like reflective echoes.
Reflective echoes which sense and show; time, space and reality, in every way. Every, single, mind-churning creation. Every originitavely, conceivable and inconceivable, manifestation of life and death, being thrown back, over and over and over again. Reflective echoes prone to making continual, mirrored changes of every variety. Changes that alter the course of existence, instinctively and perpetually. Reflective echoes, that exist to exhibit every crotchet and quaver of existence. Exist to practice, orchestrate and finely tune the never-ending nuances, of; survival and extinction, safety and danger, the procreated and the departed, reasoning and understanding, order and chaos, creation and destruction. Birthing and deceasing; lyrics, ballads and dithyrambs, of hatched esse, based on, anything, everything, and, nothing; for aye.
Please, please, throughout your life, do not sweat the small stuff.
Because in reality; you are the smallest of stuff, sweating, profusely. Picture this, in your mind…
you; are, just… a biological cell.
A cell, hitching a ride, atop a bead of human sweat, that is the equivalent of our planet, the Earth. A bead of Earthly sweat, ensconced, rolling, and orbiting, within the fold of a galactic, rotating human neck. That, human neck, is, The Milky Way. A galactic neck, affixed, within, a human body, that is, this, solitary universe.
Now, relatively speaking, imagine a huge crowd of human bodies (which in this case are being used as a metaphor for multiple universes) running, alongside one another. Human bodies, continously sprinting, amongst a stampeding mass, of; infinitely sprinting human bodies. A mass of infinitely sprinting human bodies, trivially competing, without any purpose other than to simply exist and run, in a never ending race without a finish line, on an undisclosed planet, in an undisclosed galaxy, in an undisclosed universe. That is the multiverse. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating and changing. Una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum…
Now, remember the biological cell?
That is how small you are in the grand scheme of everything. So, is it really worth, worrying, about, anything, at all?
The answer is; No.
Foolishly, if you feel that you must worry about anything, then, realistically, you should be worrying about everything. Why worry, when you could be admiring the astounding probability that you are even alive and reading, this, right now?
Realistically, the fact that you are living and bearing the opportunity to frivolously exist, is, amazing in it’s; impossibility. It is a miracle; in, and of, itself. The treasured miracle of existence has an infinite probability of equally not existing. So, treasure it dearly and enjoy it while you can clutch it. There are so many creations that never get the chance to experience, cherish and possess existence.
That makes you impossibly lucky!
Enjoy the miracle that is your life, please. Adore it, in its uniquity, for as long as you can.
Incredibly, your energy, your life-force, your soul, can never be destroyed, now that, you, have been; created. Because, existing, is, an imagined notion, within a universe’s dream, that springs to life, for a moment, of; impossibility.
You, are; a universe’s subconscious thought; imagined, cast and realised.
You leave creative markings on the stardust, that you; engage, embody and exude. Your conceptual, existential, starly shapes are never forgotten by the autogenic, empyrean energy, that you; hold, mould and enfold.
You will, always live on, within the folklore of the cosmos, as, an unforgettable, starry story. A cosmological fable; remembered, reworded and re-personified. And, so, within the realms of imagined existence, brought to life, your energy will remain, lived out amongst the stars, forever.
©poormansdreams
Monday, 4th November, 2024.
none slept forward
too little sleep back
the setting sun
clocking off early at 4pm
chuckling to himself
knowing the plight
of the insomniac
a bed in the hand
isn’t worth two hours of hush
darkness tarries
inside and outside
from cigarette marred lung
to disbe-lief falling from trees
mourning the loss of lush
don’t judge a bed
by it’s cover
laying sombrely
lower than any shadow
cast out into the wilderness
surrounded by every dream’s
jilted lover
the snore
the merrier
envious glares
at those yawning, stretching cunts
whilst keeping copper coins
on my eyelids – forced shut
for the stygian ferrier
you don’t snooze
you are a loser.
To be, within,
the, effervescent;
feminine, phantom grip.
Of; Neptune’s aerated,
overhanging, fists. So,
steep.
Cascading, satellitic columns,
of, wintry sediment,
that, can only, pray, to one day;
bless with wet,
those rectangular, ninety-degree,
vistas.
The; Neptunian duress, on; Triton-
ite; spousal, symbiotic, yet, seperate;
stress. Create, angular, plumed L’s.
Of, frozen gas,
and, dust; that, dryly;
weep.
Causing; cosmic, cupped,
cloying waves, of, crested ice.
And, entombing, ferocious tides.
Betwixt her, turquoise knuckles,
and, her; cerulean-shadow-
fingers.
A frozen, and, gelid,
atmosphere, of the; unruly,
and, the unruled. Immovable fixtures;
unpondered, unthought of.
And, without-sound;
asleep.
Shifting backwards, in orbit,
twirling, as though; an iced-dream.
In the, pitch-black, twilight.
Above; unabashed hues of blue. Before;
a bitterly-vexed, desolate, and, lonely; ice-
mistress.
© poormansdreams
The ubiquity – the binary,
the ones, the zeros,
the good, the bad…
The heroes, the villains,
the black, the white,
the yin, the yang…
All commit,
to knit,
together.
To explain,
the sharp magnolia;
pleasures,
of, a collaged existence,
by, comparatively,
interlacing;
obsidian, blunting; pain.
But, life on Earth, is…
A rich tapestry;
woven darkly,
by the Unseen’s,
sons and daughters.
Hung, from,
the bountiful, terror-
cotta halls, of, vast,
avocado continents,
that lay.
It conceals,
the sodden, famished,
fabric prism,
of; the drowning,
and, the starved,
the unprincely, and, the paupers.
And, obscures,
those – rooted to,
the blue, depressed,
weeping bedrock.
Beneath, a global mosaic;
of grey.
Listening,
to the droning,
lullaby, of a,
heathen’s speech.
Tuning his billowed, whistled,
preachy, presence out.
I mimic,
the closing lids,
of Tutankhamen’s,
shutting eyes.
I turn over,
now, under.
Pyramids,
and, pharaohs,
dance by the Nile,
underneath, my feet.
Fluting, willowed kisses,
sweeten, desert drought.
Soaring. I’m attempting,
to catch,
stomach entombed,
butterflies.
I fall slower,
from unfound, slumber.
Crashing.
Into, a sarcophagus,
of, unforgiving dreams,
and, bequeathed unsleep.
Spooning, pillowed rivers,
and, streams, of, unweathered doubt.
© poormansdreams
A crust o’ bread. Pastries o’ lead. Any’hin’, tae line the coffin; I call’t a stomach. Fae a brimmin’, ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin’ crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.
Eatin’ sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist’r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin’ gams, offer, bless’d relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart’d. Distasteful reminders, o’ the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin’, tae tak part in.
It’s a piece o’ cakie!
Ev’ry morsel, I have nestled,
in me decayin’ spaghetti-faced beard,
is givin’ solace, to the pious, and, unholy,
the kind-heart’d, and, fear’d.
Fae each, flagon o’ hate, I imbibe,
each, transgression, I consume,
a burden rises, like a baker’s loaf, frae inside, them. And, descends deep in tae me graveyard guts; a Hadean plume.
Shunned, and, sheemed, by those bitin’ begrudg’rs, sco’ned, and, defamed. Doon, Hansel, and, Gretel Lane, I’m trudgin’. Followin’ that doomed crumb-age. Me heart’s in me mooth, each mournin’, bludgeon’d, as I chews the fat o’ those snarlin’ judges.
Ye tho’ I warks, and, stalks,
ca’ throu’ the valley,
o’ the scarrow o’ death.
Youse ken the smell,
o’ each fall, frae grace,
ev’ry vice, on me rott’n,
rank, reekin’ vagabond breath.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 