In His Crazy Light

The secret puzzle hidden in your name,
Is the most fragrant blossom I suppose,
The moon’s flow is apt for this grand bouquet,
Of magnificent works of hopeless prose.
Composed for the likes of your Higher Self,
Though prose could never offer true acclaim,
Repeating patterns of the number twelve,
Raises awareness, strange pains, and heartache.
Deriving from the heart space are visions,
Past the dense Earth’s air, they have not changed much,
Said events push forth by the Universe.
In His crazy Light, I gladly immerse.

((by Amina Caprice Andolini 👽))

Shadow Dude

Forever in a vacant room
Amongst crucial flowers in bloom
A moving stretch of solitude
The depressed little shadow dude…

Depressing his own shadow’s view
Diluting his box of half-truths
The depressed little shadow dude –
Forever in a vacant room

Meditating on Poetries

Your self-esteem is a very fragile thing –
Peering through a nightmare’s walls,
belief system drenched and swanned,
searching for a brand new identity…

Searching for an online shrine –
One dedicated to big words and stillness.
One dedicated to meditation,
over-the-top creations and a daydream.

Life in Pictures (four styles)

the ku-ice butcher
a golden bubble:
cemented in ice, sees the
iciness it fears

this legend (EAP)
rich in the void of this legend,
joined by midnight and moonlit blurs
I shall never dismiss this legend,
or our lives to be wrought through pictures

the little snake (rick)
safe & warm in my simmer,
my guise is cold & slender.
i slink above ground,
there’s no one around,
how will i find my dinner?

Future Slipups
when mysterious tones
of the full moon’s Energy
call upon a past slipup –

When psychedelic patterns
dance about an unhappy tree

I embrace “what was,” join
a fierce brotherhood,
and eagerly look forward…

to future slipups

poetry is not a science

poetry is not a science to me…
it’s a painting, of words, feelings and black emotions.
it’s a sea of old blood bringing sickness to the sand;
a sea of grimy blood and shiny things.

it’s a psychedelic sea of tiny shells broken up,
and the World, will never know the faintness of its Being,
will the World, ever see the genius?

atop the bay

my mind’s so full of strange designs
find it not of normal land
hand me to the gloomy shrines
which bind it to my frugal strand
the once benign awakening signs
find a shiny mind to slay
at once, I’ll pine for humored times
awakening signs atop the bay

The Animal’s Meat

A waterfall of spoiled ice falls out the don’s trade,
ripping petals, and breaking my stem away.

Do you have to be rough
when you water a delicate flower?  
Can you manage the soil, support
its growth in heavy, dire times?  
Why rub spices on the animal’s meat,
when you don’t have to eat the meat?
Why eat the animal’s meat?
Why break a delicate flower?  
How can you rip my petals and yank
my sprouting stem clean away?

 

King Excess (Pink Sevens)

I’ve been barred
from the place you are.
Pink sevens on my
psychedelic racecar.
Perception from the
place you are – 
on the passenger
side of my racecar. 

Spare your dreams, King Excess.
Spare your dreams of pink sevens –
and black balloons.
I’ll be there soon, when the sun
rises deep in the Heavens…

Free your dreams 
of pink sevens.
Erase the pain
of black balloons.
When the sun 
rises deep in the Heavens,
I’ll be there soon.

King Excess,
I’ll be there soon!