east

When the east is dark, and looking for the sunrise won’t find me a place to believe in myself, the dawn is too thin and my stone terminals don’t reach the snapshots in the tomb of mother superiors night of waiting rooms,
I double the heat and crossed rhythms back and forth across the street trying to see through,
My crooked dilation solutions don’t hold the oasis in bloom in the middle of the ocean out through the window,
I polish the reflection with suspicious behaviour instead,
I lift my head off the singing stone sign of wings in the sky all alone,
Leaving off smooth tears that are so easy to clean off they just seem to evaporate

When the oasis of sacrifices, at the bottom of the hole in the cave of little moments fail to get to mother superiors round face sanctuary in the night waves,
Where sailors of ripcords and cross tides, timepieces
Become pirates in taboo private tables, having a grand feast unearthed with the super tide of their sublimated history,
The commodities of hope and promises splash,
Laugh and something hides revealing something of inside canines,
Mother superior please squeeze out another chance,
I’m haunted by coma, counted by cola,
Semicolon zia comma technicolor don’t play into the source at the end of my rope,
Where I float, a crooked ride in the broken mirror,
Torn inside, behind the wizard, below the mask, under the curtain.

When the extreme default record didn’t replay the hopes of yesterday,
Mother superior please squeeze out a longer piece and a safe return,
Or at least correct the risk, my wish, and my conspiracies,
Commodities of double sided equations,
Am I variable or sacrifice?
Sideways glances and but I have a new word for it,
Copy counterpoint kiss corner they don’t surprise me anymore,
When at the end of my rope, I find I’m a new comer,
Please mother superior squeeze out another tear for my bleeding ears,
At least one of you personal sounds, I hear in moments of polarization only you would know,
And in the same refrain, I wonder, if that’s the boardwalk on the Seine,
Or one of your cauldrons over flowing with youth where smiles remain free,
They won’t let me pass the ordinary results of daylight; I have another word for the slipping tide timbre of the window screen to breathe in the Sunday bath
Either side a slack backdrop mother superior don’t fit,
I bit my lip for a taste,

When I need another room for red stains on the roof,
Spider webs with tongues and teeth,
Bowel rumours laugh, “Where did this chase begin?”
Happy hour at the dock of mistaken postages and photographic steepness,
Elude in sleeplessness bent delight pieces are all codes and feed back
Put together home by home, where each head by head takes by heat a rest,

It’s only mindfulness that can hold me.