Subconscious
Over there
In parallel time,
This brain -
Neuronal palimpsest
In striptease
Blood-red dawn to dying dusk;
The husk of bone
Stays the swelling
Of the soul
Within its hellish crypt -
Ironically dimensionless:
Dark deep,
An independent entity
Perambulates
Along the promenade,
Boulevard,
Tacky yard of tacky lives
In non-existence,
A shard of me in tow,
Then scurries back to
Promiscuity -
She drools, anticipating -
Poised legs of cogitation
Tingle, brim, desperate -
The imminence of dreams
Palpates.
Such a well-warn bed,
Where fucks with notion, thought,
Imagination,
Spark an orgy
While the conscious blacks in head
And eyes;
Mulling making sense
Beyond the lies against
Reality - whatever that might be -
(But matters not
In abstract dreams) :
Forebrain greys in waking;
I've not a word to tell it! -
Where's the poet?
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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