THE PRESENT BOUTIQUE OF THE SUBLIME

THE PRESENT BOUTIQUE OF THE SUBLIME

The limpid star jet airliner crossing the sky astray weeeee
like a jailbird forgotten
the serious drum roll of the sun
and the para diddles of colors in an invisible rainbow
open to freedom.  Freezing magic.

"Scream", said the Priest
the beast will leave you dancing down the stairs wild
like a cinematic alien,
leaving you in entrails
to decor those white cotton poplin bed sheets grandma's gift.

It was all a dream of stars and adult toys of turn of the century hedonism
in an inherent night that harbored no tomorrow
no tomorrow.

So many, pop goes the weasel, imitate your smile
in the loneliness of your bathroom mirror, you are here to stay
wary of deceit and new hellos

So many stereotypes, so many.. like apple pie
as many as keys on a typewriter
now the keyboard and chess piece of life like no other
the other brother, the smile of my mother,
my father's eyes
and the tarot-like mysterium in my sister's
sigh.

I cry
loud a siren's hell, the fire in the inner ear
the falling rosary beads in a white wet sink
forever speechless

Reckoning to applaud like a french marionette, this sense
the sensibility as common as the clown's chat
behind the red suede curtains
now on fire...

now on fire. The house is on fire...




written in Caracas, Venezuela, california norte (c) copyright December 4, 2016 by Carlos Mijares Poyer, 4:55-57 p.m., automatic writing, no editing.