Dreamers’ Fiesta

Mike Lemense

 

Flesh wears goosebumps
Tender skin sings through the dyke
"Oh what a lonely sort am I!"

Lupine phantoms breathe
Alarmingly on the spines of those
Whose conjurations dwindle

Mouths loft weary hopes
Onto a tempestuous sea of misunderstanding
Lost like SOS bottles among a crystalline briny

Hot air metamorphoses to glass
Whims shatter upon coalescence
The falling shards slice sexy and deep

Hands twitter about
Like birds' with paintbrush wings
Imprinting their elsewheres and meanwhiles on empty space

Embittered warlocks cast maledictions
Directed at those who reject superstition
And Bolstered by witches' autoerotic cackles

Legs execute jigs for support
Pantomiming abstract plates their brain feels
Neath their Fort gorges and Saint mountains

On a flat, arboreal dance floor
Feet stomp out Armageddon
In rapture and fear and grace and morse code

Tesla coil noggins jingle jangle jolt
Supine skeletons who boogie
Like jive Jesus receiving capital punishment

Guys and gals get gone through galvanism
The recipe, lost in the air, found through the spirit
Brims over tablespoons and eludes creeds

Holy stank percolates through departing skin
And sacred sweat slides between cause and affect

Lonely chillins appear and disappear again
Behind hospital curtains of groove
And kitschy tapestries of dream jive

All awake in poses of piercing now
And then return to somnambulist haze
In whimsical spasms of humbled wow

All exit stage left and dwell
On the possibility that sets and scenes
May be as volitional as their manic players

All recall placental scripting
And celestial lighting cues
And the orchestra of silence

All leave uncertain, dreaming
None leave sovereign, or with grace
None leave with whole truth

For none realize
They have not left a party
But arrived at a boulevard

And the now slides past their
Callous, hardened, awed ego-shells
With no crevice for truth to dock

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