A Wash of Pixels
I waited to see my dreams
Pigment reality, but the inverse
Occurred and all there was
Was a blue-blinking screen flickering
Underneath my eye-lids,
Transmuting my perceptions
Into the to-be-reset cartridges
That are somewhere inside my pupils.
I did not witness a muddy water
Color, but a wash of pixels
That seem to twinkle on the
Black background of my thoughts;
A periphery that cascades
Like a warping sun glare
Spread over an aluminum sky with
Melting manipulating oil splatter
Clouds leaking down the horizon.
The concepts eliding from my intuition
(Punctured and deflated, elastic rubbery
Shrapnel shot to the floor by some sort
Of sentience, some tapering of amniotic
Fluid, sluishing over the canvas) capture
Echoes in the tatters of the silence and
Reflect them back to their source—or
Show me what I have been shown
To show me nothing at all.
I drown out in the
Watershed of whatever,
The breathtaking eudemonia
The dissonant pulse that floods
Through the gates of heaven as
I wonder what it is.
The streams I wish I could glimpse
Splice and scramble in the static
Spindling splintering as ashes in a blender
Hearing the sound of sad crushing plastic
Spotlit under a neon glow,
Distracted and misdirected from the
Vantage point I once believed in.
I observe the diastrophic shift of familiar landmarks,
The distortion of wherever I have been,
The mutilating borders that maneuver between
Memories to elapse where neither sketch ends.
The distinction between deception and truth:
An abschattugen, a faint outline blurring
In the twilit hours of the morning or night or
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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