Memory As Solid Smoke

Holding hands up/out in front of me to block sun going up my cavey nostrils, trance of this world, I feel you once again upwelling for my root-shot. Cavernescence of head, mucusoid webtrails pastiche my Hadean greysongs in/outward from older earthsmudge. Bean-breathing electroluminescent whorls inward from El God Eye of grief outward to forlorn navel Mandalaspace, many loves have I lost, many lives started and restarted. Many worlds have I traversed, many affairs meddling with my brainheart. Fashioned from the mawbone of my own crass mindscape, where relatives crackfall like giant Jackfruits down from trees in night, property thudding as with the routing of hogs, in shade of bitter grasses, I lay me down to contemplate itch on my bare backskin. Fish with jaws of rusted Chinese scrap metal hauled off to build big things twenty centuries from now stare at my weeding hair, upcoiling dirtily from might of candlefields and future weirdflowers. Sitting upright in possible space, the world plinks her pollen mandolin. I hurdle forward, mad through voidchasms and sundry songholes. With sun descended, free from the colloid of time, fingers press at my sides; me, self-imaged a man of tendrilhands, rustily send down feelers towards warmth that flows further past cold dirt air. And in night breathing, while manic moondrafts sluice me over, someone comes striding, wild through fields of frozen heather, to take my hand, longfingered, ringlet-haired, white-skinned and fine. I smell her own hair, busting up cold-current watercourses. I crane toward contact, feel real after centuries of blankshining vocal catatonia. Mythos plies its horned wares in dusty corners of my regal visionchambers. I sprawl outward-bodied, grab Nereid flesh and stunsing new grooves after girlwhirled nightsighing. Squalid time, you/me wretched in angelic torpor, what blithe pilgrimage are we on now, with eyes so wide we pupil-respire? I see her thin figure, strong and roiling in sleepshorn tumult, tangled, as I am tangled, in alliance of ocean-bed winewaves. We one and two to the perspiration sounds of happy fingers fumbling for new knowledge. Unestablished codes of thisness and drunken heavylidded sweetsounds double as body cartography. Mist rills flirt between lip gatherings. Flying on the ground never felt so highwinded, currents of this rococo lay circulate back to beings born of tiny phosphorescent touches. Walls bliss out like shucked snakeshrouds. Her smile is a smoky token to take on all my travels.