A Reverie

In a half-awakened state I feel my poignant feet come sobre. My whole soul rests on a platform barbed with sharp needles of 22 gauge, injecting in me some warm soup of alcohol. I turn dizzy, if not numb. The sky and the stars with the moon start cracking into pieces. The Wallflowers-lead keep on humming from somewhere in the litter-bin where I have restored myself like a pinkish white pig looking for some memories to be reverted. A crow sitting on my back cleanses me of the lice. a blue litmus paper is dipped in my nose to test the colour, if am still alive.The balls in my eyes shoot out from its sockets so that all the tears flood out for once and all. It makes my skin on my face feel like a dried-up song of innocence. I take a pen and paper to scribble a few lines on me, like a tattoo on my neck. The Egyptians start dancing to the classical beat. How about a million terabyte leeches sucking the bone-marrow in an abductitrillum with a constant valency of insignificant attention deficiency? It feels like a sand dune in a porous heart, a clot in the smoked lungs and a car radiator frozen with a chunk of diesel cake. Ulysses feels to be Phoenix. The fire from which it is reborn is the wooden planks of a cremation where the feet of the dead soul are gutted out grotesquely like a scanty blanket on a man who shivers in the cold and looks for a pint of skin of human affection of ubiquitous playfulness in quest of complete salvation to sleep in the colour of red, no, pink, it better be. Code-pink myself. Dead-pink thyself. Soul-pink -- she ever lives in the heart and mind who never had the natal sublimity and lost itself somewhere in the middle of the earth and the heaven before it had a pulse to beat. In the maze of the ductrillium it lives somewhere like I get lost in the delirium of a billion suns glaring like a single truth of existence of paternity.