#1662a - my phantom foreskin

 

1662a

my phantom foreskin

astral prattle

 

I touch what I cannot feel

 

I am here to be me

how else?

 

there is none

nor will there be

wasn’t always ever

 

it takes you back

 

in the garden to which

 

the balancing head floats off

 

I am weather balloon

fly the rug

wishful blissed

 

oarsman and steersman

climbing

 

we have been

have we not?

 

I am towards the flying island

 

I feel what I cannot touch

 

the vehicle crushed

before it rusts

 

in your dream with the Jetsons

(the wide veranda of the dream)

 

just this one little cloud

the shape of a tune

 

a drones’ eye view of Bedrock too

 

here’s Dino, ratcheting up

a herniated disc

but WD40 drips

 

judge not these words of pith and verve

 

such are my tales dungeon tales

 

to have not heard is much the same

a bullet goes

in one ear out the other

 

that was true too

 

in all the hellish vast arrayed

falling like slippery slide angels

 

a Beelzebub boogie

step to the left

 

a skin-off fillet

 

the smegma dark

of so-called soul

 

we try to escape the world

but it’s with us

 

we’re making it great again