Hallucinations More Real
I see Ezra Pound & Ezekiel in the floorboards. I see Cassius Clay on the fast-spinning tire, which appears to be rotating backwards! I seized illusions of warm coventry from the blades of failing backs. Two-fisted gargoyles, descending downward, before the crowds of hopeful suspicion. Make your peace everyday, for it is that state of grace that will bind your attentions to the galvanized stars; many of the brightest now dead & icy; remote & shivering in the palms of your grazing hands...
I felt barren waters slip through my toes. Grape leaves protecting the white fissures from the paranoia & constant doubts. Each ocean, a droplet from a rain that fell hard ten trillion years before. Un-questioning royals chanting to rubber trees, & paintings over paintings. Tactics bereft of wisdom; untraceable , detached , maudlin & priceless. Nature's tricks abounding under the blue & yellow lights of canteens. Each & every, more or less; back & forth; fro & to...
Gatherers sowing & seedlings growing. Trees like fur of broccoli, standing mute within the symbol-heavy totems & parched defilers. Soil soiled by mute defendants. Foil boiled by cute remembrance. These things I saw, heard, felt & dealt. My eyes my cameras; my hard drive brain, swimming through the pale blue rain; driving me & myself insane, as I rest my bones on the window pane. Gothic sediment uncovered by salient priests, dressed in shoes made from clown noses....
I saw, I heard would-be assassins , aglow as the orphan furnaces, even in plain sight, quilted in drain-pipes. Slowly slowing down, like an escaped breeze being stalked by the flagrant, jealous wind. Generals, their colonels in blasphemous retreat, cry out to the moons of Jupiter: "Save us, you elliptical lodestars! Save us from us & ourselves. Don't just show some decency; give it up to us! Let us dance to your possible oceans, and your craft-shaped hillside ranges..."
And still more, I witnessed men who no longer believed in belief. Now, being forever, they only believe in disbelief. Changing credos as one changes socks, these mastodons mourn revolt; chastise chastity, while chipping away at the Northern Star & the stage-managed Bethlehem. I have been poisoned by the only known cure. I've been kidnapped by the hostages union. I've been tricked and traded by the fire chief, and left behind by the missionaries, and the nuns' association....I should really cover up my floorboards....
©EricScottBloom 1.13.16
I felt barren waters slip through my toes. Grape leaves protecting the white fissures from the paranoia & constant doubts. Each ocean, a droplet from a rain that fell hard ten trillion years before. Un-questioning royals chanting to rubber trees, & paintings over paintings. Tactics bereft of wisdom; untraceable , detached , maudlin & priceless. Nature's tricks abounding under the blue & yellow lights of canteens. Each & every, more or less; back & forth; fro & to...
Gatherers sowing & seedlings growing. Trees like fur of broccoli, standing mute within the symbol-heavy totems & parched defilers. Soil soiled by mute defendants. Foil boiled by cute remembrance. These things I saw, heard, felt & dealt. My eyes my cameras; my hard drive brain, swimming through the pale blue rain; driving me & myself insane, as I rest my bones on the window pane. Gothic sediment uncovered by salient priests, dressed in shoes made from clown noses....
I saw, I heard would-be assassins , aglow as the orphan furnaces, even in plain sight, quilted in drain-pipes. Slowly slowing down, like an escaped breeze being stalked by the flagrant, jealous wind. Generals, their colonels in blasphemous retreat, cry out to the moons of Jupiter: "Save us, you elliptical lodestars! Save us from us & ourselves. Don't just show some decency; give it up to us! Let us dance to your possible oceans, and your craft-shaped hillside ranges..."
And still more, I witnessed men who no longer believed in belief. Now, being forever, they only believe in disbelief. Changing credos as one changes socks, these mastodons mourn revolt; chastise chastity, while chipping away at the Northern Star & the stage-managed Bethlehem. I have been poisoned by the only known cure. I've been kidnapped by the hostages union. I've been tricked and traded by the fire chief, and left behind by the missionaries, and the nuns' association....I should really cover up my floorboards....
©EricScottBloom 1.13.16
My Life In Boxes & Folders
Each one hundreth millionth of each second is a summation. I'll never catch up to myself. Eventually I'll pass myself at light speed trying to. And my life will still be in boxes & folders. Sifting through papers gives them the weight of boulders. Reading any makes them titans on my shoulders. Even when life is in a box, it can still pass before one's eyes like an un-rated movie. My artist's soul nags at me like a greedy witch to do something with these artifacts of messages in imagery and clips. Share each, as though it were a minute of painful joy, or joyous sorrow. Provenance. Make certain the grand gesture is sharing these scraps of blood; these flowers of un-breakable youth through the agony of Now. Were that I could transmit the shapes and colors to the open hearts, as to appear majestic, as when they were brand new and not even dry. Pulling off the covers of the boxes is the testament of un-earthing a cyclone of arrows, plunging dead center into my heart. My marrow is regret. And who decided regret was a sad and wasted street? My regrets are the spaces I left un-filled. Holes. Cracks. Ignorance. Having dodged warm, pink kisses. Putting Valentines into boxes, now found at the bottom. Letters pouring forth the young maiden's will to touch and be touched, left un-answered, to fade on white and yellow-lined paper. Addresses that no longer exist. Homes plowed aside for technology parks. I boxes, memories are in a pile. There's dirt in these boxes that was not there when I closed them up as tombs of potential grace and hope. Perhaps regret is holy and hope, an allergy. No matter, I can still smell the inside of each box. Not flowers, but the flowers of young temptation and frightening longing. I succumbed to fear, but not always. Perhaps the grace was in the receiving. Perhaps the lamb's praise was in the keeping. Each question answered only with more mystery. An entire life sitting on a pin-head, and room for a hundred monster trucks. The jewels in the boxes, and the boxes themselves remind me that I'm falling. Maybe falling up. God promised down was up, and up was out. At least one promise he kept. I should read and look and see before it's all disintegrated, like my will to dive into these oceans of seas; cauldrons of feelings beyond and higher than simple love. Love should be embarrassed. These are my boxes, holding my children away from the storm of Now. Now hurts my knees. Now steals my breath; reminds me of Death. The Now when I'll be safe in a box, with no room for my Valentines, letters, pictures, notes, kisses, postcards, messages from dear friends I cannot recall as ever meeting. Yet, each box and every scrap is proof that they happened. It happened. I happened. I know that, no matter what happens from Now. I reach into the box, with eyes closed. I'm going to choose a single article, at random, on faith.....
©Ericscott Bloom 12.5.16
Seventeen Thousand Miles An Hour
Be wise fools. Be afraid, for it is not something to fear. Be gentle, free & yearning. Realize the most expensive thing in the cosmos is Freedom. You told me you would love me far past The End. Until Non-Existence did us part. Now we know we are un-able to be torn apart; or made separate, as there is only one single soul, including the dust, leaves, planets, stars, winds; apples or pears. There are no connections, because there is only One. The tides whisper to remind the lonely night into morning. Birds sing for themselves; not for us. They seek and search, but the angels themselves are the birds. Sing your melody like the bird. It will temper you temporarily, before the titanic waves wash away your pictures under cellophane. Fish only drown in air. Moons only smile when the Milky Way shifts a millionth of a millionth of a degree. Then, the weeping begins, and the moons' bones crumble into a fine powder; their oceans beneath, dry to a butterfly wing. Angels' harps hidden away in closets are plucked by unknown masterminds, for the pleasure of pleasure. Wander with me into the damp wood. Perhaps we will feel the soul connection that proceeds through the Cosmos as that One. One Love. One ticking heart. Placed inside us by the falcons. Jerked into an insane rhythm by a quatrain, in a boundless book. You are heavy for one without body. Beauteous for one without reflection. Poles are upside-down and inside-out. Preachers sweating in tents, gripping handkerchiefs. I listen, but to a fa-off jingle. The song of phantoms. The notes whistled by a cauldron of winged blind. No eyes are necessary to sing. No claws needed to howl from the mountain top. A breeze calms you, and then an arctic blast has you panicked, searching for your heaviest coat. You'll never find a coat that was painted on a canvas a thousand years before. Only your brittle bones can warm you now. You will have to stroll the beaches of Paradise without your one true love. Unless you believe in your heart of hearts that your love is inside the shell you found, as it washed up onto the shoreline, calling out your name, though your love, the shell, the shoreline and the sand between your toes hath no name; no symbol. Always forgotten until the clouds form into a circus of anonymous rippling travellers. You know only to follow the vapors, as that is the blood of those angels, perfect and yet lost in the changing skies; a blanket for the coming stars, whose light has been gone for as long as the heartbeats and shudders and picture-book memories....
©EricScottBloom
5.17.20
©Ericscott Bloom 12.5.16
Seventeen Thousand Miles An Hour
Be wise fools. Be afraid, for it is not something to fear. Be gentle, free & yearning. Realize the most expensive thing in the cosmos is Freedom. You told me you would love me far past The End. Until Non-Existence did us part. Now we know we are un-able to be torn apart; or made separate, as there is only one single soul, including the dust, leaves, planets, stars, winds; apples or pears. There are no connections, because there is only One. The tides whisper to remind the lonely night into morning. Birds sing for themselves; not for us. They seek and search, but the angels themselves are the birds. Sing your melody like the bird. It will temper you temporarily, before the titanic waves wash away your pictures under cellophane. Fish only drown in air. Moons only smile when the Milky Way shifts a millionth of a millionth of a degree. Then, the weeping begins, and the moons' bones crumble into a fine powder; their oceans beneath, dry to a butterfly wing. Angels' harps hidden away in closets are plucked by unknown masterminds, for the pleasure of pleasure. Wander with me into the damp wood. Perhaps we will feel the soul connection that proceeds through the Cosmos as that One. One Love. One ticking heart. Placed inside us by the falcons. Jerked into an insane rhythm by a quatrain, in a boundless book. You are heavy for one without body. Beauteous for one without reflection. Poles are upside-down and inside-out. Preachers sweating in tents, gripping handkerchiefs. I listen, but to a fa-off jingle. The song of phantoms. The notes whistled by a cauldron of winged blind. No eyes are necessary to sing. No claws needed to howl from the mountain top. A breeze calms you, and then an arctic blast has you panicked, searching for your heaviest coat. You'll never find a coat that was painted on a canvas a thousand years before. Only your brittle bones can warm you now. You will have to stroll the beaches of Paradise without your one true love. Unless you believe in your heart of hearts that your love is inside the shell you found, as it washed up onto the shoreline, calling out your name, though your love, the shell, the shoreline and the sand between your toes hath no name; no symbol. Always forgotten until the clouds form into a circus of anonymous rippling travellers. You know only to follow the vapors, as that is the blood of those angels, perfect and yet lost in the changing skies; a blanket for the coming stars, whose light has been gone for as long as the heartbeats and shudders and picture-book memories....
©EricScottBloom
5.17.20
The Prayer Is A Plea
The closest I ever came to the sound I dream in my mind, was the night the owl let out its howl, like a bullet from Masterson's six-shooter. A blast from a stained-glass cannon, hidden from the jury of angels and shrunken demons; a platoon of grenades & forlorn dread. Plaster from Paris coalesced around the souls' yellow fire. At least a thousand times I whispered I loved you. Eternally hung from the tree of false knowledge, you dropped as suddenly as a planet exploding into less than a twist's worth of vapor; lesser than the beginning of Nothing. Following you around the city corner, beware of Jacks & Spades & dying Everglades, I am shallowed by the trick pulled off, when the Master Of Clouds & The Duke Of morbid sunlight sung me to sleep inside a palm leaf, and closer than a slipped disc. The people you adore the most are the ones you can most easily hate and despise, as the story of Love & Honor's pages blow away into the canal, once numbered. Bless my feet, as I can still walk a raggedy-ass mile, for ointment & bandages; powder & stiff medicines, who's claims aren't worth the rubber-tree glue they're written on. "Real medicine." Have someone rub it on your sun-burnt nose as you lay there, breathless. Now sleep, dreamless, under the dirt-covered box, while laughing at the sheer folly of having spent a small fortune attending the best college, for football and chemistry. The demon-child can hear, but just barely, the chuckles from your breast pocket. The tragic gesture; the the priest forgot to include your great-grandmother's locket, to be laid beside you, as you were lowered down into the loam and tidings. Flowers & goose-feathers exploding like the soundtrack to Mr. Blanding's Dream House. Home away from home. Home sweet home. I fell through the weeds, all the way to China. Just to sip on noodle broth, which kept my frigid resentments humming like a warmth-giving heat-maker. This you may know as we knew when we came screaming into the room of the world....you will be tickled, and then, soon, beg to be tickled. Beg to be held by someone so special, that your skin will quiver, as your eyelids will shiver. That dream is a promise Eternal...
©EricScottBloom
The closest I ever came to the sound I dream in my mind, was the night the owl let out its howl, like a bullet from Masterson's six-shooter. A blast from a stained-glass cannon, hidden from the jury of angels and shrunken demons; a platoon of grenades & forlorn dread. Plaster from Paris coalesced around the souls' yellow fire. At least a thousand times I whispered I loved you. Eternally hung from the tree of false knowledge, you dropped as suddenly as a planet exploding into less than a twist's worth of vapor; lesser than the beginning of Nothing. Following you around the city corner, beware of Jacks & Spades & dying Everglades, I am shallowed by the trick pulled off, when the Master Of Clouds & The Duke Of morbid sunlight sung me to sleep inside a palm leaf, and closer than a slipped disc. The people you adore the most are the ones you can most easily hate and despise, as the story of Love & Honor's pages blow away into the canal, once numbered. Bless my feet, as I can still walk a raggedy-ass mile, for ointment & bandages; powder & stiff medicines, who's claims aren't worth the rubber-tree glue they're written on. "Real medicine." Have someone rub it on your sun-burnt nose as you lay there, breathless. Now sleep, dreamless, under the dirt-covered box, while laughing at the sheer folly of having spent a small fortune attending the best college, for football and chemistry. The demon-child can hear, but just barely, the chuckles from your breast pocket. The tragic gesture; the the priest forgot to include your great-grandmother's locket, to be laid beside you, as you were lowered down into the loam and tidings. Flowers & goose-feathers exploding like the soundtrack to Mr. Blanding's Dream House. Home away from home. Home sweet home. I fell through the weeds, all the way to China. Just to sip on noodle broth, which kept my frigid resentments humming like a warmth-giving heat-maker. This you may know as we knew when we came screaming into the room of the world....you will be tickled, and then, soon, beg to be tickled. Beg to be held by someone so special, that your skin will quiver, as your eyelids will shiver. That dream is a promise Eternal...
©EricScottBloom