Poem: Dream Caught

 

 

Dream Caught

 

yellowy moons in scythe ballets,

they weave amok, windy as swallows,

 

no fear of my godzilla-sized head,

theater for their puppet show.

legs wheel airy letters,

sentences of half-seen languages,

such agile spinners, plots and spells,

vortices of phrase and world,

obsessed to instigate a novel, so it seems, 

about a fractured, frazzled ghost,

some poor captured and 

compartmentalized soul,

 who fled the harangue of a city of tombs. 

the fantastical octets

continue to write, on and on,

orange with lust or peachful sweet,

inky blue, sometimes pink with rage.

for all they know 

the broken one, this want-to-be,

with the godzilla-sized head 

looks back at them

  

and dreams.

============================================

10/26 wherever you go, there you aren't

9/27/25 yep ... no

8/25/25 ... who knows what the hell is going on here, I don't...

4/27/24 

3/19 "fantastical" replaces "perceptive"

phantasmagoric play on a number of orb weaver webs