Drift Intention (Beacon)

we are there,
in a sea of floating specks of dust.
the deep pink impact has set us free and we
are drifting with the cold, callous wind.
from realms of green, gray and blue,
our minds wander carelessly around
the subsonic, subterranean totem pole figure.
“the one who gives the future.”
organized clumps of undead mite matter,
we are colored swabs settling on a book’s front cover.
anxiety, and dread.
the life we are meant to lead:
missing.
we float on.

(a boat in an unlit path stained with granite teeth,
one without an anchor to stall in waters waist deep.)

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Civi Dreams

incandescent memories breezily rush
towards the mirror of an assured finale
it has occupied my mind, those mixed rice
memories and 4 by 4 melodies. I’ve worn
adjunct laurels of disregarded victories.
I’ve had the joys of camaraderies pave
a newspeak way. it wasn’t meant to end
with a laser of spit-shine reminiscences
or the encapsulated rot of an unused mind.
it wasn’t meant to end the same,
like a wiper cycle for an endless cloudburst,
the dismayed cacophony of hopeful aims.
but maybe that’s fine.

disquiet shrouds my pink diamond joys;
we can no longer call ourselves boys.

a sense of despondence and hollow strides
towards an unborn future with blinded eyes.

TV Drama

how sad it is to see a romance on screen?
sappy piano tunes exhorting bad decisions,
public displays between conventionally
attractive persons we’ll see once again.
it’s hard to stay placid with all the maroon kisses
being laid and exchanged without a downhearted
phase. unrealistic yet we don’t accept a change
how sad it is to be jealous of pixels, of ultraviolet
tendencies and LED loves? our vicarious urges
lead us once more to another form of potency,
and so we never, never move on.