Poem -

Sunflower Dreams

Sunflower Dreams

I have longed for the breakfast of youth, I have longed for the bloody knuckles of euphoria, it is only in my changing visions that I find the art, the words, the sounds.
I tell the moon all about this energy which I tap into, I create only based on dreams and memory, Van Gogh hangs from my wall reminding me of madness and I stick my tongue out at him.
I push the brush onto the canvas and something takes over, I create the worlds which I see in my empty abyss.
I close my eyes but the shadows continue dancing, I thought it was over,
truly I did, but it’ll never be over, it’ll never return to the ashes of the dream.
I click the typewriter, word after word,
drink after drink, drunk on a Wednesday.
These words I pull out of my heart leave empty holes, bleed orange juice gore, sustain nostalgia on the tits of the whore…
more more more
give me more, I am a poet for fucks sake!
I can handle the ends and the beginnings
the tortured lives or the anxious deaths
I can handle these things,
I have shot and killed the moon
and to this I confess,
I have birthed a new curse
and for this I laugh,
I have written with blood
and I will never go back
for it is here in this space
where I find the worlds
which exist within my soul.

I have longed for the wasteland parade, the celebration of misery, I have longed for my trapped winter, I mean, where else can one go but the other side?
In my dreams there’s always a man dancing in a circle, he dances over an edge and as he seems hopeless to the cliff he swerves around and continues the circle.
In my dreams the pyramids light up and open, out come the phantoms of Egypt, out come the Mayan Sorcerers.
In my dreams I realize that I am existing within the confines of my own mind, I try to alert myself but nothing happens, the angels come from the clouds, all is lost!
I have longed for abstractions of existence, I aim only to create what the rainbows bleed, I seek only to forget the suffering summer breeze.
I admit only to my own complexity and though this world which I take inspiration from is not one which surrounds me it still hangs above me, I smoke my cigarette and lay on the floor listening carefully to the howls of the wolves, waiting, waiting, waiting.

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