The Valley of Lilies

Curled at the foot of lunacy I question the veracity of reality
Out of whack chemistry aimless physics random biology mathematical progressions regressions lack of destiny
But if psychosis equals making of “it” what I please
Then you should carefully translate for me the consonants vowels irregularities of this language you taught me
And you should justify the arrogance you took in defining my senses
And you should not claim absolute truth into the absurd of this universe
Because I dread the possibility of it all being intrinsically resolute
Because I am so utterly vexed by what renders me alive
Because I indulge in my imperfections yours
In the remote prospect of reality being a dream of repressed memories of a perfect world
A fossilized expression of a collective being
Or perhaps a nonbeing force pulling a tad harder at the worn out seams of my existence

In these small hours of the night I sift my qualms through no rhyme or reason
Viscerally grasp that what I fear the most is losing my insanity
This endangered balance on the brink of an incomprehensible senseless abyss from which I bluntly afford to be who I am
This bent on what ifs that shamelessly pinches my adrenaline
This ground on which I stand aloof in the mist of it all be it what it may
Throwing another ranting fit of melancholy at the crossroads of your discrete emotions
When your sun rises or sets over a day that will be or has been one way or another
When you had other things to do think be a part of
Yet with a perfect albeit far fetched relation to me
The air I breathe the atoms I dislocate consume transform the genes I express
The space that doesn’t fold seamlessly over me as I am after all a blob in its fabric
Unlikely to be ignored because it exists within the tick-tock of the time both you and I share

And then
If my epidermis doesn’t quite separate me from you the valley of lilies the neighboring galaxy
Where does reality really fit in how does it play out beyond the threshold of confines
Could it be set in stone irrefutable immutable
Could it be more than a concept by which we live dream imagine question reason die
Plunge in the depths of misery ecstasy confusion certainty trite extraordinary idiosyncrasy madness
.
.
.

in other words

I get this intense feeling of honey
Dripping
Softly, gently, mellow, insanely soothing
Out of yearning for love

Wine & soup

This is the worst combination
In this order, particularly.
The wine has already taken over
The soup is too late!
Too late to bring common sense back around
To let it rule over an altered mind
When its demons are up and about.

Soup, soup, please make me sane!
Make me see the other side of the story
Like I usually do
Let me grasp the sober meaning of things
Things that have let me down
For no reason at all
Things that I haven’t been made for
But rather they just happened to be, for me.

I dipped my sweater string in the soup
It almost made me laugh.
I wiped it with a napkin
I laid it back on my chest.
I found it funny – my chest!
I spooned in the soup
Thinking of the wine.

I’m not hungry, I thought
I’m not thirsty either
I don’t know what I am
Scrambling around between realities
Not finding one to want to belong to.

Soup, soup, please make me throw up one that fits me
Better.

Dream of a butterfly

by Ana

I found myself this morning
in my mirror
looking dazed
confused
somehow smaller than before
tilted my head
searched the bags beneath my eyes
played with my nose
it had turned green, crude
a color my mom never liked
the color of bile, maybe
anyway… mundane details
to the body I had inhabited
long
fuzzy
propped up on a connection
of small sticks
what an imagination she
must have had
to draw a
caterpillar.

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