Daunting golden towers triples on a desert horizon Off the highway, – where is the caravan? Pierce your sword here into the tan dune side and let the aloe vera flow out; A paradox that lingers on chaffed lips – drink Sim. A gang of minx sprints by, A sphinx idly sits, all with Onyx eyes. Betwixt between modern rules inner life regains opportunity to illumine.
Where is the caravan? Under this sun this land stretches in endless mileage, The sky is defenseless to protect us from the avian demons; Lovely silvery sky. Drink more cactus molasses now Sim, Ancient rite of gulping syrup under bird shades drawing blood for Gods. Paddle cautiously over the quicksand lakes.
There’s sand in my wounds Brink of destroying ourselves Sticks and stones to our names, Out long last, dry rays to scorch, flow of glass and diamond steppes. This is the decent: where is the caravan? Is that not it skimming the crescent of Crystal Spore Dune? Yes Sim, my friend, gulp in the jelly of earth.
Closer to the spirit fence, over it. Powder in our goggles Corner the vultures from here to the city; Fifty of them bastards soaring high above our hot-air ballooning heads; The mysticism of medicine is in the desert smoothie we drank. The caravan is not damaged, A gallon more of that complex soda pop and homebound we go SIm!
I have not much to say about myself. . . I like deserts, oceans, forests. I'm never satisfied with anything I finish but I always begin anyway. Dry sarcastic humor. Introverted. Cats. Still evolving, constantly learning more.
Outraged film and dirt life. The descent was complete. A shadow under the moon walks past the lake, comes out of the body. Every dream leaves an imprint on the glass. Will never drink the moonlight again. The blank surrender
Wynken Blynken and Nod??? (ah…oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee barked up the wrong tree – reed don my mongrel friend) This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag to take digs on front page headline grabbing news, nonetheless
After a long time, I heard them again: peacocks. Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees; poised to open sexuality. Ah, the purple lips of a downing cloud sets the sky on a chase for a lost love of the
Am I Alive, or am I dead? Is this all just a dream inside my head? I feel like I’m losing my grip. Quick say something, anything before I slip. Nightmares slowly creeping. Has he finally come to do the