Sprung Encounters

I. Exhabition

We sat on the floating tilt o’whirl at the parking lot carnival at night.
The neon lights slowly faded and we sat tight underneath the pressure of the—safety belt
Waiting for the machinists and operators to abandon their stations
To be alone
Without the noise and clutter of the world
The darkness seemed surreal with the vivid memories of starbursts spread out—every three inches
Watching us with serene potential
They mock our impotence

Watching what amusemeant
To one in the past
When the world was as simple as
The floating tilt o'whirl at the parking lot carnival at night.

—xanax makes the night light like a firefly—

We dance as freely as a floating tilt a ‘whirl at the parking lot carnival
Wearing nothing but ambition on our back and hearts up our sleeves
Watching the lights come to life in retrospectacle
Wanting nothing more in our retina or on our reticle
Than the science behind the miracle of how we transcend conscience as
We sit on the floating tilt-o-whirl at the parking lot carnival at night.

II. Reminiscing on the 116

I sense the presence || A nomadic soul enters when the doors open by the Locomotive tracks. So dissenting must the experience be for the forgoer.

Lo, Where do you get off?

Facing the lake,
A shimmery seiche;
The wavelengths radiating from
Ethereal summery depths.
Dipping a toe, the shock
Venomous as it is voltaic,

Offers salty solace to the stoic’s nostril,

Yielding a touch to the tongue beyond displeasure.

Else, there is a grandchild in their greater years
Unable to take care extended with grace.
Randomly accessing the memories of
Space and time that prophetically race,
Yet control, plus a zenith
Ensure the undoing of the dissenting descendant.

The heart has yet to be touched however,

I promise you will be there at the top of the hour.

Nay, the end of this hour. Our
Subterranean burrowers leave scars
Everywhere but our legs.
Dreaming, you are not,
As you descend
Through the organ.

Equal parts euphoric and

Dystopic.

Grains of salt will assist the firewall,
Restricting the bridge between then and now.
A-N-D
Every severing cut
Updated by our imachinations
Reinstates the purpose of your wanderful soul.

III. Deontoxication

In talks occasional, He
Feels: content is necessity
With our engravings
So rigorous
On slots and pane:
Ten Commandments lead
The unkind necessarily
To gather a moral compass
Direction. The sires
Answer His deliverance,
Demand order so
That darkness bounds the mind.

***

Intoxication, all he
Feels: contentedness/acidy
Withering ravens
Soaring or else
Onslaughts and pain
Tend to come adamantly.
The unkindness is airily
Together. Some more will come pass
The wreck, shun desires
And service the liver, once
The man orders, o’
That darkness bounds the mind.