She's a
front-stabbing
savant,
the most puzzling
figure
wandering
this earth,
she's lurking
in the midnight
slate,
while I'm trying
every trick
in the book
just to
stay alive,
I'm bleeding
lightnings,
waterboarded
by tunes from a
synthesizer,
that's what happens
when you
collide
with an intimation
of the absolute,
the civilian
who stumbled into
a myth,
I used to do this
for a living,
now I do it
for a dying,
but don't you worry,
the police
have no
jurisdiction
in the sublime,
and your
velvet
ideation
can always
take us
there,
if we
find ourselves
in a pickle,
this is dreamlike
escapism
at its worst,
but it's what I
like the best,
if only,
so never,
but then
and sometimes,
those are
logic gates
in the semantic
processing unit
of your brain,
it's back there,
I can point at it,
and if you
find that strange
I'll have you know
that this thought
has a manic,
chain-smoking
cousin,
putting my heart
in a blender,
you can imagine
the mess,
good thing
I wanted to
paint the kitchen red
anyway,
the liquid sunrise,
set on fire,
two bodies
still ablaze,
I'm wondering
how reality
can still compute,
she gave me
the word
petrichor,
and that made me
notice
the scent
that rainfall
drives out
from the soil,
isn't that
an interesting
way around?
She gave me
the word,
and it unlocked
the phenomenon,
Plato is making
a comeback
in the 21st century,
it makes me
contemplate,
what other words
am I missing?
So be my guest,
point my way
and fire
lively rounds,
I need the words
to see
the unseen,
define
the equivocal
the lucid debris,
so if you meet her
make sure to ask
for a word
to see,
she's covered
in a white shift
and she used to
think
of me.