Matter. It Doesn't Really (Super)

And these — there ridiculous paranormal
experts words coming out from their mouths
“energy” — “force” — “electric charge” —
“temperature” — Ergo
supernatural = matter
assuming these people know mass-energy equivalence or E=mc^2

but my point really is
I am a ghost —

She, ah she keeps on reminding
me that I am a ghost — What, then —
I pass through walls, she passes through
me, seeing nothing. Now! Confused I am thinking

I am made of
i-don’t-know, but since she can’t
see / hear / feel
me I conclude, I am
made of neutrinos, or photons or other elusive
particles —

meandering moon

I want to go home, I don't wish to be here
for several days
this place is like a big bubble in the raven afternoon
with broken kaleidoscopic colors, colors of the blind rainbow—
never I see your place
I want to see where you come from
where you really are, I want to see you walk
I want to see you, to feel your subtle smile
and listen to you as your eyes speak
by then I'll be able to see,
even with my eyes closed,
your smile, your shining diamond laughter
they never weep
they know no demise
in my mind, they're always here
flashing the memories
of your face.
                        I want to be there, beside you
in your place
in your mind
let's have a small talk
or  maybe we can have caramel sundaes instead
anywhere
as long as you're here with me
as long as time runs
as long as we live
art is happiness
after all

interpretations; &

well, you see,
                                                                               sometimes    or
often,
                                                           things  are just
                          what
           
                                they are.             really.
                                                               no need for  a  superficial


                                             superficial                


 metaphysical masturbation—


a dying           tree is a dying       tree


                     and                                                that      
                                                                    hungry hound devouring
         
                  a hopeless old bitch             is a dog,                      


they're both dogs—


look here:    this monstrous rat is not a burning black shack—


i mean, come on. throw  it      a          l  
                                                               l        a    w                 a       y
             o                  n

hunger strikes the psyche

stomach stirring, rumbling, burning! too much nothing
to digest—the empty spaces, the vacuum
of the mind, and all its illusions

airs and graces

haunting the hollow soul—

ah, hear! hear! listen to the beatings of the heart, the heart that resembles

the eye of a madman—or a cynic
but
is there anything else
to love? who knows—


must be the oxymoron of life as love

never deify a dead heart