m dry tongue

 My dry tongue,

Carries teacups across the boarder,

Full of disguises,

For fortune tellers, 

Seeking the Light House Jubilee,

Where we could all meet,

Once upon a time,

Our apples turned to pears,

 Our pears turned to peaches,

 Our peaches turned to mango honey,

 And mango honey filled the apples,

My dry heart speaks,

In a future of socially given sensory conductions,

Thin wires in new sequence drives,

All my chances, 

Prepared in broken pieces,

In flimsy flashes,

Between the sheets, 

Of twice around infinity,

My dry lips speak,

Like thin clouds to the sea,

Silent words,

With missing letters,

On wings of forgotten histories,

Too big for todays skies,

My unsettled silent words,

With missing letters, tones and subsidies,

To old to account for this tragedy,

Still accent their loans and shades,

For a dry song,

To come alive again,

After rock bottom and sunk,

In Crossways of sauntering light illuminations,

Slanted and intermittent flashing refractions are just too small,

For  any    places in the night,

I never noticed in all the ripples,

The night moves unseen,

At the end, of a tug,

With moon docks drying under my prayer rug,

Dark medias with no one to trust,

Slow the suspension,

To the warmer given,

The half apparition, half circumstance

That carries the wind,

With second hand gloves and a hat,

Paper proxies,

Where I don’t feel safe 

By methods that use cuts and hisses,

To approximate hugs and kisses,

For a fate of listening, to rise again,

In the romance casinos,

Of sticky shoes and answering machines

Approaching zero, with brave jewels boosted by an afterburners fashion infusion,

The touch and go,

In a broken cradle,

Where a secret dies,

But a smile on my corpse will tell,

What’s between those pyramids and stars,

While I hide in the shadows between my parts,

To luxuriate in my own simplification,

Of old skins,

Before I was remade into tiny wires,

Gyroscopes spinning re arrange the stars

Too sharply to remove the habitation to fire,

All the veils for the ceremony go up one by one,

The suffocated glory below,

A stone washed taproot,

For satellites, fiber optics and codings,

Because they’re sexier than the stars hidden leagues,

**************************************************************************nb 

And I catch at last,

Hands of mycelia wraps,

Where have you been 

My giant howeed,

Turning the page

Thoe other hand speaks the moon the trounce

Before, When I was made of many thin wires,

And what’s in-between those empty spaces of gapped and gapless in-between what doesn’t show on the radar screen

Webs within webs,    (blown around like tumbleweed)

Slow the suspension,

Half dream,

,   Fading in and out of a donut hole,

Trading in my head,

To carry the wind,

Dark media from the satellitie,

My face turns blue, so far away,

The look recasts the wider net,

To the proof of concepts,

Until thers’ nothing left and I breathe the cool,

No Bach, no pool 

Loud the last call of desert flash,

Always just aftermath,

NO stash,

Already blasted,

Passt any remote access,

My repack.

On out to the the waves,

Of my hands,

Second hand gloves, shoes and hat,

Paper shops,

Proxy savers, 

Mining the land and sky,

I can’t fly,

In single file types,

And ride waves over other sanctuaries,

I got my signals crossed,

A nightshade with its own set of secrets,

Bask of my mind,

Don’t seem right,

Networks of 

Double sided I cannot go,

Near sighted I cannot know,

Recycled synergy,

Sickened effigee,

Momentary interest,

Monetary speed making faster installments and caught in fearful   returns,