Sex, Love & Starborne Seeds.

Let me
mash and smear my lips
against your soft

pair, gliding down, so thorough,
hands ascertaining form
like the skilled blind:

an assist
for the exploratory tongue trek
down your neck
and breasts, fearlessly entering

the vice
at the heart
of your inner thighs,

where I dig,
dance
and wiggle
till I see your light.

Let me bury me in you.

Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.

Finale
of that single scene
behind me, allow

me to penetrate
you viciously, enact the rhythm

calling to me,
permit entrance

to your deep, dark, enlivening
inside, where I at once
hide and let
the consequential bliss rise
as I ride the wave,

awakening
me in the safety
of us,

the cradle of the bond,

now, finally one.
Not just
is it what I’ve always

wanted, but I suspect, it’s all
I have, will or would
need

to start this journey.

You are all I love,
who I want,
all I need:

a long-awaited season
for a hopeless starborne seed:

unless you or circumstance
decides
to metaphorically fuck me
and leave

me empty and wanting.

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Lost in Slumber.

Never any answers.
You leave the boy in shambles.

Broken memories,
shattered mirror,
knots in relations.

A thorn in his third eye,
wounding the mind of this unresponsive soul,

lost in it’s slumber.

Now a Tree.

Lay blame at the feet of fear,
always striving to perpetuate
the illusion of control.

Cast aspersions instead
at the ground
around the soles of love,
alluring

despite the death inherent
in it, as a porchlight
might be for a nocturnal insect.

Run with your will to be free
from any semblance of responsibility
until the pain

forces you to ascend, like a spiritual gag reflex
into a transcendent space above,
where you take control, surfing the waves
of your former, illusory boundaries.

Rooted in suffering,
now a tree with branches striving
to wind
themselves in the skies of true liberty.

Alert the ET APL.

Monitors revealing
mass destruction
just behind you, up

on the wall
in the darkness, as you stare,
receptive and dead,

into my
ocular silos, strip

me naked, subject to analysis
the complex reactions
triggered
in my mind, looking
for something.

What are you hoping to find?

Is it the heart and soul
that you’re lacking,
you beady-eyed
marionette?

Sadness, fear,
or guilt this time?

Poke and prod
this ape again.
Thorough examination
from soul to skin.

I much prefer
the corporeal feast
to the rape
you enact within.

Between Green and Violet.

Awareness: the core,
the white light
of the soul, the observer,
the witness, my third
person perspective:

ajna,
my pineal gland:
in spirit,
if nothing more.

Triangulate…

Consciousness: the prism
of awareness,
breaking that white light
of the soul

into: moods, states,
frequencies,
psychic spectra

within which state-specific,
mood-dependent
memories
and consequential identities
are forged.

Fractured.
Split.

Shards.

Puzzle pieces
broken, dissociated,
beneath, through: a light,

each psychic island
expressed, manifest
in wildly, widely
varying intensities,

constantly shifting,
oscillating…

And where along
this continuum
do

I

reside?

Somewhere between green
and violet,

according to her,
my Jungian Sophia,
my Native American
Spider Woman,
Spider Grandmother,

but not quite blue:

so either
cyan or indigo.

Show me the spectrum,
blessed alien:
explain classification issues.

Her body light
is green,

so maybe we resonate,
share a station,

or maybe I’m a mix
of purple and red,
a body light of indigo,
a step away
from violet,

from wrapping
up this work,
the end of this road
of the soul,

my next
turn destined to set
my future precedent,
a significant step

dictating
the ongoing
World Line of my soul.

Wish that Nimi
would let me know.

So long
here, wondering,
should I just wait
and stay

here, and if not, my Teacher,
where should this
confusing-shade-of blue,

perplexed
Artist

fucking go?

Never will I have faith
again: trust
is kaput.

No.
Not at all your fault.

In any case, m’lady
I could use
the input.

Ongoing Battles in a War of Will.

Immobilized. Playing dead
but forced into the role,
faking it
towards making it.

All doubt in them: obliterated.

All the rest of my life,
a silly dream, now shaken
into reality just before
it seems its about to be ripped
from me. Fear and frustration
of an ensnared soul.

A just universe? What a joke.

No answers, no graduation,
just eternal recurrence
of the same song and dance.

Another veil to suffocate.
More memories abandon me.

Lost to what I’m fighting
for, surviving, snarling clawing
away at what my heart
screams at, subsisting
off
my own stubbornness.

Alien Agenda.

Can’t see it, so
blessed be
The Great Horizon,

but you can feel
it like a tidal wave,
like a doomsday
bearing down,

you hear the music
at that pivotal moment
in that epic horror flick
and think
you know what’s coming,

hoping lightyears
beyond the heights

of their mythological hells,
utterly paling
in comparison,

that you’re wrong,

fighting
with every square inch
that you have

that ominous sense
of certainty

that you’re not.

Nimi’s Web.

Reflection and reflected: nested.

Examine the shards
of a shattered holographic film if you will;
fix your unwavering eye
on a single, polished gem in Indra’s net.

Determined, you follow
through, deep and thorough tendencies
leading you right into realization of a labyrinth
you have always been lost in,
your surreal ground and structure:

infinite and eternal, colaced,
passionately fucking everywhere,
now and forever:

at the heart of it all,
behind extreme ignorance
and intense denials,
our personal and cosmic,
hard and soft
consensual love.

To find the core, chase
the dragon of the infinite regress

just to find yourself forever embedded,
now hopelessly wound
in the cosmic,
extradimensional spider web.

Strange Collector.

Steal another moment.
Mangle my perceptions.
Manage my imagination.

Share and shape
another dream with me.

Feed me all these questions.
I’m a collector, after all.
Hoard all the answers,
you stingy bastards.
I’ll fucking find them
on my own.

And I can’t be
sure what you really are,
but I’ve adapted
to the unknown
and I know all too well
how to bear the doubts.

And I’m a stranger
in a stranger land, but I know
I’m not alone.

Met so many
in my secret family
of the strange,
though so few
of them seem to ache

for truth, so I seek
for it in solitude, chase
to face it voluntarily,

deal
with it in my own way.

Hangry
for the fruits of my labor,
for sure, though
through persistence
and patience,
I will endure.

I’ll understand this in the end.

Maybe Insane.

Mysteries invigorate
me, exploring
possibilities, finding hidden
connections stimulates

me, so bring
it on, I can take another flood
of oddities, I can bear
not knowing
so long as I can increase

understanding,
but I need to know

I’m not insane, can’t bear
questioning

my mental stability.
Been at it too long now,
the agony
of self-suspicion.

It’s exhausting.

I need confirmation
that I’m not just fooling
myself at some deeper level,

that this isn’t all
just a conspiracy
against the self.