The sharp cold corners of the day
Deny the soft foundries where the I
Undoes all regulation. Not location
Nor chopping minutes’ disciplines
Can marshal marching corps from liquid instances
That infiltrate the secret places of the psyche.
Here an eyelash curl can twirl a galaxy.
Here the warm flesh of sex and ecstasy
Erects municipalities of rushing blood,
Of thick fluid smells and salty flavors
Which dissolve known pathways into broken chasms.
Landscapes out of continuities erupt, slide, and slump.
Sounds bark or tinkle into coruscating creatures
That dance or threaten, invite or pursue
Bedecked in pointed talons, needle teeth,
Enrobed in smoking clouds that twist and hiss.
The waking mind cannot confront quotidian cascades
From all the senses, pure and direct.
It must shunt the horrific flow to holding pits
Where trap doors creak wide only in the dark
Wherein the exploring eye may adventure
Safely cloaked in the insanity of sleep.