The Sense of the Senseless

The distinction between the colors that we see. The shades in the grade that gradually change. How can I know that the me that you know is that me that sees mysteries in the spaces between. Within the spectrum we spectate we speculate that the reality I experience is the same. Is it the same? It settles on the plain, it tastes the tasteless faces, liberates the blame, a panorama of my paranoia. I’m tired of this game.

Is it the sound that you hear that’s here speaking in voices that vibrate in frequencies that frequently hum in tones like the ringing of cellular phones? It’s not you, it is me that meanders in meaning. The noises are similar to the song I was streaming. Stuck in my head phones, the sounds sound alone like a molecular drone or a monstrous groan. The song is done streaming to rivers lay dreaming by opulent towers of toothless mouths screaming.

The tongue is done cleaning. But the taste it was awful. It left me still wishing for lips to be kissing like cats in the alley fighting and hissing. When I was done eating, my heart was still bleating and creating a crater from a violent beating. The flavor was favored by lepers and leeches that relaxed catching rays on warm black sand beaches.

The smell of the sun had only begun to erase all the fun. The perfume of the room, scent of doom, made me run. The men with the grins grinding teeth into powder, the odor was the fragrance of a red dying flower.
A bird flew in tandem with the wave that wove random. The aromas of Romans with reckless abandon. The sense of the senseless, the scent of the scentless. The powerful pull of her, simply relentless.

The feel of her skin, desperate sin from within desert sands as the wind carves a cleft in your chin. The touch was a crutch that gave way till I fell, in love from above she looks down as I yell. I could not undergo at no time could I know how these feeling would grow! Chilled to the bone from the snow – icy stare that she gave me depraved me like a low rotten dog misbehaving. She was a mess filled with scars and with stars that were staring through space at us. I tried to forget her caress. Her skin showered in different states of undress. I can’t forget, I confess. To try is just useless. To try is just useless…

Poem is mine. Image is The Five Senses by Hans Makart (image from the Belvedere Museum)
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