Photo by Thomas Despeyroux on Unsplash
moon milk
that vulnerable space, between thigh and throat
between tongue, and depleted serotonin
of rotten apple clusters seething with life
of elegantly draped
heavily dusted spider webs
looking more like torn rags from the thickness
now,
not as before,
visits digesting from capsulated nightmares
cease
crack open the moon
spill forth its warm milk and cinnamon
into elegantly curved carafe
pour, into waiting ear
coating brain in organic slumber
within the dreamscape
She runs
the antlered ashwagandha sleep goddess
on the edge of the periphery
edge of the celestial lit horizon
with lavender fur
flowing milk white hair
fragile hopes of luring her to bed
to languidly lie on twisted, book-filled blankets
to recline weary head upon her so soft fur
she’ll stroke my hair
I’ll stroke her lavender scented fur
resist,
coaxing her to bed
with cheap knockoff sleep, prescribed for the rundown corner drug store
hand feeding the wild beast pharma tricks
chained slumber
factory processed twelve-hour coma made in laboratories
sluggish brain filled with its calories, additives
longing for eyelids that stay shuttered at night
the free-range variety
moon milk cravings
to sleep enough to dream
instead,
body cleansed of harsh sedation
trying to float on fluffy valerian clouds
and indica
dim luminescence, breezy white noise
flowers stuffed inside plastic capsules
their roots thinly buried in the crowded nightstand soil
jostling for lamplight
steeped and steaming chamomile leaves
swallowing primitive tools
traps laid
the hunt begins
tracking highly prized dream meat
illusive and skittish, aware of innumerous subtle surrounding energies
searching for my hesitant, hooved guide
to the realms of sleep
but, She senses diluted meditation
takes flight to the weather beaten troposphere
the depths of the pillaged, empty ocean
hides deep within the plundered forests
skittering between axed trees
only glimpses of faint tracks on the blood trail
instead feeding savory dreams to those who do not desire her so
those who would shrug her off for something idle
ancient Sleep
not created for blocks of time
but for the weary naps of hunter gatherers.
deeply relaxed when the rain comes
innate ancestral knowledge
vulnerable creatures sleep better when the sky cracks open.
predators don’t hunt in stormy weather.
creeping close
the hypnic jerk
drifting into the unheard
almost stroke the fine ends of violet intoxicant
desperation clings to the night air
like the smell of spent ammunition
sulfurous and hungering
camouflaged blind compromised, exposed
Sleep bolts
the fog faeries in my mind flutter away, and I,
am left with my awakenings.
seams along body loosen
threadbare shoulder, frayed knees
serotonin drains through scalp, oiling thick, wavy hair
dopamine leaks
over hips, down length of legs, pooling between toes
in mirror light
with shiny new needle, silky thread
overcast stitch broken skin, trim away rough edges
hem shoulder, darn filet lace over knees
collect drops of serotonin squeezed from hair
catch dopamine dripping from toenails
into porcelain mug, for morning tea.
the silence and distortion
the silence, dissolves
rising, before amplified distortion
as the newly borne rim of a spherical universe
is born
expanding, with the imagery of your mythologies
sharing visions through language
a curved, steel hook, sharply caught, in my limbic system
reeling my mind, into yours, with imaginary worlds
simultaneous release, of interstellar creative energy
a new world, now forming
in some place
in some time
magnified to your eye
once again,
as before,
I have that strange, familiar feeling
I’m walking
upside-down, on the bottom of this globe
the soft souls of my feet magnetized to the earth
the real terra firma to be found, out there, beyond the clouds
gazing over your newly formed world
looking down from my headlong position
watching your actors play out their dysfunction, their love
watching
as many suns lit the curve
as the atmosphere shed its water weight
as the wind dipped her fingers through the soft, fuzzy rushes
and spirals of crows filled the space with omens
my feet began to peel from the soil
a flood of starlings funneled around me
swirling me down
you’re alone
at the centre of your newly created realm
a god
your philosophies escaping through connections in the air between us
into my cerebrum
Honey, do you want me?
the walls of your world are thin
you’re on the other side
vulnerable head resting in architect hands
leaning, against a blue tower
forgive me for wanting you
for coming to find you
for pulling you out
from under the rubble of your our creation
the path to your door is being laid
but my vanguard plant water hemlock and devil’s helmet
to block my way
the world crumbling at my touch...
...and I was thrust
through the distortion
pushed back, through the shared atmospheres
passed the silence
bruised
and I stood, right side up, on Reality.
soft fire
carried over from the ancient verse
inside a magma gift box of cosmic rock
tossed through the shrouded gateway of a black hole
streaking brilliantly across cinnamon-sparkling space
with intent
soft fire
to set our world alight
to create shadow play, for the first storytellers.
heat, for the huntress’s first roasted wildebeest steak
to feed her wide-eyed, ravenous wolfskin wildling.
ambience, for the lovers
to twist themselves together by.
for the belly of Mother Earth, to turn her body
dancing to her own wild witch beat
between the stars.
soft fire
in front of your eyes, lustfully bends; flaming ballerina
your breath on her, shapes its will, stimulating her to spread
soft flame
to lick sweat from your tender-sweet thigh
lightly scorch the length of long, vulnerable, extended neck
strike an inferno in the deep crevice at the corner of luminesce eye;
sending volcanic shivers as it climbs,
searing flesh,
inch by inch,
up,
your supple spine.