Dreams in Brains
The masonstable frame of my bed rocks,
as the visions that I have come destructively
in heat waves. Knowing the constructs I see
sing for my death I am so moved to drop.
I, in contact with ground, continue singing pop
songs until their brains expand and majestically
splatter as abstract portraits. Examing the best of these
reveals a gruesome portal to worlds of rot.
There is an urge to wake myself and find
the bed filled with sweat and idle hairs.
Yet, staying in the doom and dead brine
there is a solace not in morning airs
that stoop and sneak to take me uglyplaces
where there are concrete not suggested faces.
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