Stirred; Not Awakened

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Ambulating at a pace to conquer the gazelle,
Running away, ne’er to wait for the bell to knell,
Somnambulating to escape the endless days,
Sun setting on an enrapturing consumptive malaise,

The earth pulses through my body; radiating calm,
Soothing a restless mind like a cooling balm,
Not asleep nor fully awake, I furtively slide away,
Catching one last glimpse of the sun’s falling rays,

Moon, your face holds lines of lust and lines of passion,
But when you frown at the sun your complexion ashens,
The ever rising and falling of your mind’s eye,
Reminds me of the clouds swimming in the sky,

Sunshine kisses a cloud, whose shadow shades the day,
Obscuring my mind, greying the things I want to say,
I used to hide, stepping carefully to avoid sullen decay,
Hastening to keep my meditations hidden in the bay,

My heart was cleaved ad infinitum as I wandered alone,
Darkness encroached as I boarded, paying Charon,
But a syncopated song called to me pulling me free,
Like a small dog tugs and wrenches, stubborn on its lead,

One day the cool air tugged my heart-strings open,
I climbed from the warmth of a musty sleep-filled den,
And I ran as far away as a day seems to a bored afternoon,
My wings grew and I flew, no longer cut no longer hewn,

Towards reds, purples, pinks, and blues all speaking in tongues,
I began to hum; vocalize; manifest; sing that which had sprung,
To wake me from sleepless beauty into a thirsting desire,
Consuming life like a dragon appetizingly slurps on a tall glass of fire.


Musicality of disagreeable words.

If kisses were pearls, I’d give you an ocean full,
If tear drops were sheep, I’d have a herd of wool,
If anguish was topaz, mountain ranges would be blue,
If dreams were a child, they’re something you outgrew.

I dreamt once, longingly shy, that you’d wash away this stain,
Brush the unruly mane that winds sought to tussle and un-tame,
Clear the revelations from my mind in time with this beat,
Close your arms to the hurt when our two minds meet,

Savour the air that bubbles and gurgles–the words we’ve lost
Are marked on our skin in the time and the lines that we’ve crossed:
Grooves and clefts, treble the harmony of woe sung, not cried,
Notes on a page, soaring through time, time long passed us by.

Cradle the night that pulls you towards dawn’s misty eyes,
Alone but not lonely, guided in darkness by Gaia’s earthic sighs,
Unfeeling warmth–fulfilling frigidity; usurped sensuousness observed,
Seeking one truth, desperately; it’s all, certainly, absurd.

If kisses were pears, you’d have an orchard aplenty.
If tear drops were cheap, you’re eyes would be empty,
If anguish was a topiary, green statues would rue,
If dreams were a child, they’re something you outgrew.


Dream a little dream for me.

So I am about to share the weird story of my dream.  It is just such an incredibly random moment in my life, that it even includes Zack Efron.  zac efron? Apparently. Someone I don’t even ever think about, but for some hilarious subconscious reason (i.e., he should be paying the internet a lot of money for landing him in my subconscious) he was there.  He is the main ‘character,’ but it feels to weird to name him constantly, so just keep that nugget of information in mind.

I was in a long and cavernous hall.  The walls shone black and were lighted by long modish lights that did not really permit one to see; their sole purpose was to glaze the walls with streaks of light.  The illusionistic wallpaper wrapped the hollows of the caved walls, being subtle enough not to draw attention away from the eye-popping party itself.  Chandeliers danced as music charged through the hall.  Alcohol flowed into glasses that clinked in amorous celebration throughout the vast complex of celebrities at the party.  The visual centre-piece was a large Louis XIV-style fountain, made of the darkest glowing black stones that it looked as if sapphire caves had been opened for one night only.  Walking throughout the hallway celebrities popped in and out of view; a few younger, less known ones, sat on chairs like museum docents trying to herd the party along.  The party roared along side the contented participants, but their participation seemed serene instead of rowdy as the scene was set in such a fantastical place.

Seth Rogan walked past as though setting claim to the joyous hilarity of the comical styles of Will Farrell and Zach Galifianakis.  Seth’s comedic pantomime invited people to listen and interact infectiously for a short while, and then he carried on; he was the hour-hand that informed people of passing time as he circulated the party.  Unlike Sisyphus, Seth was dressed in a tuxedo and wayfarer sunglasses, pushing out gags and honking one-liners was not tiresome, but, indeed, a whimsical play on words, a merry-go-round.  This world seemed enchanting, like the first time Nick went to a Gatsby party.  I wished to know the host, since everyone else seemed connected by fame, and I passed through, welcomed, but not feeling the same.  So, I found a cavernous corridor to the side of the godly fountain, like a small church chapel, I knelt there and lay my purse and my coat.  Unafraid, I boldly left my possessions and decided to mingle throughout the party.

Walking along, I met a woman my age sitting on the museum-styled chairs, and we talked in passing as I hurried by.  I passed the fountain, drinking in its mist and delectable glory, I walked through the crowds of fashion and celebrity story, and I walked to the end of the long cavernous hall only to see, hanging starkly, a glowing exit sign on the wall.  His hand caught my arm, and I looked abruptly to my right.  He smiled with charm, and I looked on in casual fright.  He smiled, releasing my fear, and said, “that’s as far as the party goes.”  I looked all around, interested in the party around, smiling and cheery, I turned to leave.  But he looked at me and said,

“This is my house.  I am the host.”  I looked at him skeptically, but it was, indeed, the truth.  He looked through the party with wonder in his eye, and sat back lazily drinking and smiling wide.

“Such a lovely hall, I wonder at its beauty.  The lights, the fountain, the–”

“Let’s go!” He grabbed my hand, and I nodded in agreement.  “Adventure!  Let’s get out from here and explore the town.  This room is beautiful, but let’s go elsewhere.”  So, he held my hand and we ran towards the exit sign.  Remembering, I cried,

“My coat and purse!  We must turn back.”  I was afraid he would give up the dream, but his eyes assured me that he wouldn’t leave me.  He turned around, and we ran.  We made a game of the hunt.  Running through the stage of actors and actresses playing their roles, and occasionally he’d cry out,

“Look, a Megan Fox…  Did you see that fashion?”  Our celebrity safari-hunt dressed the cast as different wild animals gathering at the water to gossip, live, love, and survive.  We raced through the guests, holding hands and laughing the entire time.  I felt like Peter and Wendy, racing though the scenes of adult life and only stopping a moment to mock and question.  Holding tight to each other, our youth was reaffirmed through the ceaseless contact. We passed, at last, through the exit sign into the crisp air, but we were not cold.

Still hand-in-hand, we walked through the streets, the lights smiling down on us, and the stars fighting the light pollution to say “hello” too.  We approached a rather large intersection, and in a daze I did not even notice we had started to cross.  We were not paying attention to the traffic racing by; cars rang their horns at us as they swerved to avoid collision.  We moved to the island; he pulled me into his protection and we laughed.  We did not need real stars or real islands to feel free or to be in love.  We had each other.  I looked back over my shoulder and we kissed.  Still laughing, and this time, with the right of passage, we continued along to the other side of the road, no longer playing chicken with the cars.

“Food!” He exclaimed, “I’m starving, what about you?”  I was not, but I agreed it would be a good idea.  So we walked with the hope of a final destination now.  No longer flâneurs at a whim, we followed a distinct path towards food.  The magic had not left us, no, we were still lovers making amour as we walked along, but the magic of our setting dissipated.  The streets were dirty, the street lights too bright, and the traffic was smothering.  Love seemed to protect us from the encroaching decay, and we continued to fight the tragedy of modernity like Peter fought the onset of age.  Wendy travelled in lieu; straddling both worlds, loving both, and being loved in both.

We entered a restaurant, and he ordered for me.  As we waited for our orders, we talked, smiled, and laughed.  A cloud of rosy affection surrounded us; polluting the air with a healthy glow of love and kindness.  We held hands over the table, smiling into each other’s eyes.

Our food arrived and our worlds parted upon fracture lines.  Cheese; cheese everywhere.  I knew I could not eat it.  Somehow his attention was diverted into technology, and I pulled out a book.  Neither of us were really carrying out our act; he was not actually on his phone, nor was I actually reading.  I looked up at him, and he was staring.  He had a look of sadness upon his face.

“Oh!  I was just distracted,” I smiled.  “I wasn’t trying to be rude, I was just looking at the form.”  He nodded towards his phone to offer an similar explanation, which was lost as Seth walked past the window.  His comical time-marking was on cue.  He was still dressed in tuxedo and sunglasses, but now he carried an oversize book that entitled, THINGS TO DO IN TOWN.  I laughed and looked across the table, “He didn’t have that at your house did he?”

And then the magic left us, Seth had struck midnight.

“Wow, you said that rather loudly,” Zac exclaimed.  “You don’t need to tell everyone you were at my house.”  My rose-coloured glasses unglazed and I stared at Zac, there was someone beside him.  I couldn’t think when this new person had got there.  Who was he?  As my eyes focused people around me cried out,

“You were at Zac Efron’s house?”

“You were?  How do you know him?”

“What, Zac Efron’s house?!”

Torn from the phantasm, as I passed through time and space away from my dinner guest, I awoke to the sound of Seth walking by again, an alarming merry-setter, reminding the guest that even the fantastical has an expiry date.


Spirit of the Wind

Wind caressed her face gently and soft,

Like downy feathers gracefully aloft;

Through her lashes, light shone through,

Sensations grazing her, striking her anew.

Gentle rushes respond to the wind’s subtle hushes,

Lilac scent drawls lingering, enchanting and luscious,

Her limbs ensconced in the comforting warmth of familiarity,

And set above the scene, clouds jest unscripted hilarity,

Blinking, her eyes devour the cacophonous delight,

She drinks in the still life that wanders out of sight,

Bodies arching and swaying to hummed supple tunes,

Each soul, helpless to another’s melody, nimbly swoons,

Hands reach out to grasp desires and passions once more,

Like tides vivaciously and animatedly lapping the delicious shore,

Clutching handfuls of grass to feel transitory life fly in the wind,

Ephemera decapitated in a sensory upheaval herein,

Serene breezes like to interject upon little day dreams,

Participating in visions, kissing them anxiously agleam,

Anon, she smuggles these memories abidingly,

Sweetly humming her own mysteries confidingly.