Moments OF Seeing

The black pot spills over in its bubbling heat, over its trembling lid

Endorphins rush. Fingers tremble. Breath becomes fuel for a motor.

The thrilling flow of a moment of being Falls through the cracks of consciousness.

Like a chameleon’s tongue. The moment when being Is being without seeing.

The black pot settles its shaking; Returns to its slow simmer; No bubbling now.

Fills through the night of our collective shadow.

To see the world in its colour –Like an Andrew Wyeth Or an Edward Hopper.

To see the world in its proper. You and I stand at the cusp of understanding, On the precipice of the next line, On the possibility of the next word: Dada.

DadaDadaDa dada da da da da da da dadadadadada.

But I can only speak for myself.

Mind your own business, you who read this. These are my words, not yours, And I am no one special. Where is here? I’m never here. I’m nowhere near I fear. But at the we share a collective shadow.

You don’t see the point of it, do you?

That’s alright, neither do I.

There’s no point in pointing fingers

At the figure in the mirror. It means nothing.

Just clay masks worn

For the semblance of tragedies.

Neurons flare, Shoot off like bullets.

They shoot off to remind us

Of the space they leave behind.

Who was it that said the orgasm is death?

The moment when the self unravels