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Ignition
I
heard the word ignition, as the tree dust blew outside my window,
I was leaving the planet now, the white noise, its plastic pollens
living on the edge of
town, I thus went further into those dark moments, unbuckled
myself, as nothing
remained underneath me, like a weightless cactus, I floated
and uttered the verbal
spells of white twisted clouds with shades of blue radio chatter,
that disappeared into
those substatic regions too deep for dispassionate shadows to
probe fitfully,
During my first unfulfilled view, close to these green leaves
of ocean, silently rimmed by
the earth's missing spectacle of snow, red flowers hanging triumphant,
dwelling deeply,
with a dreamless sleep, that petered into a slow crab-like meaning,
instructing the
planet, as if through a bull-horn that brilliantly existed in
New Zealand,
I heard the word ignition, as the blackness of space began sprinkling
outside my window,
I welcomed the home planet, as I was pounding my fists like
a familiar siren,
blowing off these transcendent blessings of the sun, its space-suit
touching the floating
hatches of the planet's muttering orbits, which touched me in
such unknown ways, vast
and deep, allowing me soon to hear my own body,
my heart beating a unique fear, my blood vessels pulsing this
over-lapping kindness,
so wild in its rustling, with muscles as vast as these pinkish
stars, hidden by blue lights,
so violently defended like holy relics, that burned with a silent
pressure, that flinged
itself as if inhaling a velocity so outward, that only I could
successfully set it ablaze,
as I heard the word ignition, for the first time like a divine
lightning pouring forth
earth's glowing organ pipes....
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Tremendous
Brightness
The
tremendous brightness of your light came as a surprise to me,
your bright red hair floated out and strictly speaking this
temptation was not allowed,
nor
your blue eyes which put this far away stress on me, I was gripped
by an agonizing posture, by your zen flash jeans that drooped
down towards your black shoes,
and
that circled your waist below your redeeming breasts hidden
by a black shirt, I entered your deepest shadow, I then shuddered
in the middle of your deepest art-works,
I
held your hand and did not monopolize your time, your lucid
radiances were lost in the silence of our breaths which reminded
me of Christmas ornaments hanging in the doomed blackness of
space.
I
moved closer to your face and touched your swinging lips with
my lucky fingers, the laws of physics told me, you were the
finest of space-crafts which suddenly made
your
divine orbits around the strange planet that was me, something
that clicked simply, like a master utensil which could never
be diminished in scope, this was the cosmic
jewlery
that you wore always in honor of the world, I gentley blew the
flickering flames and entered your golden door.
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The
Deadest Traffic
You
were beyond the deadest traffic noise with these pretty things
that you made, your long dark brown wavy hair, your fairest
skin, the Irish thing--which was expressed with a
moral vigor, with light blue eyes, that loved interesting people,
that were more comfortable in a pair of low hung jeans and a
chloe blouse, which according to some interpretations
can be nectar rendering, especially in a broom closet at a boring
party, your serious look takes you to distant galaxies--that
blow snow from sweeping gusts near the bizzare silent
sun, it's all in the sad braids of your hair, also your harmless
baseball cap, and your long neck, so strong and lean that it
quickly jumps down towards your long, white legs and big
feet, listen--the scenic views from the billowing hills hint
that Saturn is nearby with its dirty hands, contemplating, perhaps
impatiently, which excessive fingers will signify how
serious our new relationship will be, when the mysteries are
completely revealed, but the murkiness continues to hold its
place, like patches of ice which are pock-marked and
spotted with all kinds of fungus and moss, spilled harmlessly
onto your palms which sweat and which hold me with accurate
mischief--when we swim into the pitch black
ocean--and discover that soon we are slowly in orbit--around
loose, wooden floor boards, that have yet, to burn down.
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Coming
Back
When
I came back after just twelve days, from the complete Gaian
feast,
I felt fuller and softer, the streets and the cars were a speedy
and silent
scenery of a purposeful weightlessness, that was earthly and
drunken,
rich with intense flashes of violent lightnings linked forever
to scattering
cities
larger than velvety spiderwebs which rattled in a chaotic vacuum
of mercy, beyond any previous experience that had ever occured
to me
with a most humbling feeling, as the furious concentrated sound
of
tommorow stepped up and whispered to me and pressed its melancholy
goodnesses to my limitless ears.
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All
contents of this site are copyright by Michael Arthur Finberg
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