Aunt Jemima's Fake Warmth

Aunt Jemima, yes dear, I am sinful.

Please swallow your tongue.

The wind is blowing colorfully here.

The sun wraps itself around immortal evenings.

You don't have to bring your fire to this vast oily field.

We have our own.

Your eyes are a lie, a white beam erected upon a

system,

a promise you once heard

and decided to somehow embrace.

May the sand wrap you mercifully

into oblivion.

Baby, cold water never tasted so good.

Royal? Farfetched.

May the poison be served before the banquet.
"So have I"

So many secrets woven unto your gown, mister.

Oswald we're both deservers of the throne

and at the same time inflicted upon society,

nerve-wracking, royalty upon your dirt.

A trophy, an exit passed by our lane.

I can smell the troubled air:

the vitriolic poison that ended your life.

They poured it when you were not looking.

Sudden Swamp

I am afraid I have forgotten you.

The days are full of youth.

A white breeze seizes my window,

through baby-sunshine.

There are no sandy days

the yesterdays are mint-green,

such honey and milk over your sacred fingers.

Surefooted I was a martyr,

properly and well to do,

with eleven sailors

throughout the Seas

(whether at peace or war)

I thought I was there, when I wasn't.

Therein (laying underneath dried leaves)

Across the cliffs

and at the very heart of the bone of the whale.

A voice said:

"Welcome to Ursula's Swamp,

where the todays are mint green

behind a night that beholds doom."

I thought this disease was over,

but the disaster was just beginning to turn white.

I don't want to talk about

the disease that spreads in the air,

not today in SUBTERRANEAN coughs,

between jokes that manage to

bring back

the

memories

that

I

thought

had

fallen

of

The Tree of Agnes.

The view from here is Blurry.

the Swamp quickly turns yellow as I manage to wade

between ooze of darkness.

black oil, slow and doomed.

Like ourselves,

when love is a harvest destined to be

a bad omen

and a black foreshadow

for this farm

for the sons of the sons,

the suns of the suns

that belong to

a vain promise

carried from a voice

to another,

3.000 years in advance.

There, I am hugging air,

despite a lack of field.

Vincent's Prayer

I believe in myself,

behind the white Night

and dark clouds.

I'm just there, hanging between

the ripe soil

and the sickening soul

of fearful ones.

The rain falls

disgustingly.

I will see better days climbing the summer fence.

Content in variegated dreams.

Oswald, the tide is cruel amongst us,

but I can see (from here)

that we are already winners.

The Sun That Follows

Do you forget who you are?

Under an evil intention overflows your identity.

Your welfare is at the moon, with the wolf.

Natural love,

sun to rain,

Vanilla Skies.

A Poignant Rose, Houdini.

Seldom when the seed is softened by the river nectar,

a frame is found inside the stigma.

Houdini turned sideways, claustrophobic:

"Away where the clouds swallow white,

I will breathe, vastly inside a triangle.

Through the gentle sword,

pulled out of the skull

I will search for you,

through the fire

through the chains,

to find the mountains where

the clouds are suspended.

The birds chime

between native bells.

Clear water falls downways Lupe's

dark hair,

(a rainy night)

revealed to be

an outpour now staining

her folky

dress."

Impulsively I cried in happiness,

around the poignant soul of Houdini's prayer.

Across The Garden

Something else rather than a void,

if the crystalline heads south.

Some other roses in this garden,

Harlow, red-faced, about the clouds.

Beneath the dried leaves I
need to find the essence of the human.

Persuaded, beautiful, red and grey.

Agnes' Chandelier.

It is cruel, if you can breathe.

Red romance behind the fence.

At the border I yelled.

Strawberries,

throughout ever-blossoming autumn.