Pseudopsychosis.

Memory elides into the eyes there

(let it die) in the sloth of dreams, it is

a protest against the ice shadow

of what the fuck were we thinking under

the frail permanence of memory, this

stir dislocated into cracked lilacs red

born as species, the earth moves the rock.

The ocean shivers each broken bone, come

to the blood of desire where laughter opens in

the frightful wind in silence, a secret that is under

the haunted shores that teem with frost leaves, the

continuation through infinity, temporarily anchored in the shadow

of the tide by the surrounded white shapes of grass and ancient shelter of

black roses draped over your face, traversing the underfed yellow, this

leaf of autumn that bleeds into the deformed sky, the sun red

as we are collided into the mumbling refrain, the concentration of light upon the rock; 

alive, the icy wind, the mouth of nothing bare from a lover, and

growing abandoned, we can understand how it got us here; I

look around the ocean shore in a sleep with no memory, eyes never opened, will

the hollow shiver of the sea continue to morph? I dream, and it slithers—a show

in my dreams, before a silence in the flowers promises the vision of our ghosts, you

don’t speak as we live, this synchronized muteness in a morning fog, something

in your eyes that is impossible, abstract in a pool of water different

than before beneath the ribbons of bones & sinew & flesh from

our rejoined rebellion, we are prey for the dream-light either

from the sense of sun on old stones or the virgin dark that a-gapes at your

touch–ignoring the shudder into that icy wind, the memories of your mind, a shadow

in display to escape in the existence of silence in tattered sands covering specimens at

unmourned coasts and shorelines, where hearts bleed into the dark morning;

let it die, unbridled in the pale shore, and collapse into the faintest winter striding

never-ending in the fading conveyance of motion—instinct convulses behind

in half-sleep, a silence to keep, separating where to hide; you

don’t speak as we fail to flee from the rain—it drapes over us alone, or

the water on flesh, the water on organs cleans the poison, your

eyes of dark ice go unnoticed in the return of an autumn shadow

without hope, and we are to sink into the blood of our eyelids at

the grey hours like a dream slipping away, never ours; evening

comes slowly with a new absence, convinced that moments are rising 

relived, but it was never enough to satisfy; your eyes of tragedy worm to

mine shaking like a starved siege in my mind as our hands meet

I see you.

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A/N: This is my attempt at the Golden Shovel poetic form where you choose a few lines from a poem, and use each word of those lines at the end. Here are the lines I used from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland:

“There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you.”

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