Pseudopsychosis.

dreams in the Sahara
insanity in the flamenco acedia,
I linger in the ocean floor,
stripped in fertile silence
as frost knows death
better than I.

the typhoon, the sailor
it festers the dying beast
of the albatross and the ocean sea.

she’ll kiss the divine blue waves
with fury, summoning the wind’s womb;
in the age of man and death,

a paradox of shadows like in the Torres Del Paine,
the shuffle of ice in the dusk stood trembling
dew hangs low in the dark cawing ancient warships

stretches the wings, forgetting the language
upon the sanctuary; midnight timbers, and the wind
murmurs a Hebrew song—
assails the salty waves in a coup, the air free of scars,

it hunts the grandeur of the icy world
dreaming under the stars, seized like a troubadour’s poetry
in the bare and frozen winter of many, many abandoned
in the sleeping flurry of cold, flashing like a blue guitar.

river, marred with froth,
gathered by the pilgrim waves in the absolve of silence,
hidden in the blood that breaks in the dark
beyond the foothills, the soul, and seawall.

the typhoon, the sailor
it festers the dying beast
of the albatross and the ocean sea.

she’ll kiss the divine blue waves
with fury, summoning the wind’s womb
in the age of man and death.

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