Shank Rainbow Fugue

My God, this is really happening!

In a flash, rancorous lucidity reveals the world as it is, as never seen before.

Crass illusions in this place are solid in a way that sticks to your bones.

Prescriptive Goo smeared on delicate private parts by strangers in lab coats 

fulfills wishes for deliverance, or so the television says. 

Clarity flows through cracks in fluid objectivity in search of transparency. 

There are bars on the dirty windows of belief and someone is scratching to get in.

Why do the dead keep making noise on the stage where we rush to have our encore?

Individual core meaning is stranger than can be supposed.

Certainty in intellect lacks the odd seminal attractor, the necessary opening

to the creative option. An open heart’s pathetic sensitivity as holy mission pales

in the glare of brass facts. Only fools cast aspersions on the insanity 

of the thornless hybrid rose. Dare to fathom the shallowness of daily reality. 

Stroll among deep fake constructs grooming feckless souls for their blessed seduction.

They will never realize they’ve been seduced until they lie bruised and bewildered

oozing spunk and blood from places they usually hide from the world.

To save themselves from admitting shame they will proclaim the violation love.

They’ll harbor that love in a dear and wounded part of their shadow’s heart 

then shout the same guttural love into the face 

of the one who dares to bear witness to the crime.

There is no healing for the prescient divine madness of proclaiming 

psychotic profane indulgence as the standard role-model for a feared future.

Genuflect before the horny false idol of loving embrace. 

Revel in the phantom appreciation you make yourself believe in.

Feel how complete all of it turns out to be after being so completely a romantic delusion.

Rub your nose into yourself, six square inches of fetid shadow soil tumbling 

through a bottomless hole in route to a fabled Source advertised as everywhere. 

If something touches me I must go to the root of it, chasing a complete picture 

of attaching to non-judgment with subject matter that fails to logically focus. 

Allow the cut from the fine edge of allowing, a surrender of disassociation.

Wallowing is not finding balance yet off-center creative immersion be praised, 

be brave enough to assault your variations in valueless social toxicity.

The sympathetic magic of mercurial mood countermands an epidemic 

of boundary thickening spasms in light of finally found but wounded hidden places.

A whisper becomes a fading call to moral responsibility no longer recognized.

The insight is stark – fabled individuation is but the first step of shamanic initiation.

When achieved, one’s wholeness must next attempt to discover something authentic.

If nothing lasts then the value of seizing the authentic is a genuine distraction. 

My Self as Soul, if it dares to reflect on itself, is eagerly remanded to a clique of experts,

their cleverness abounds in the ruined temple of reflexive self-absorption.

If we’re all asleep and need to wake up then we risk losing the dream.

While sleeping we watch, while dreaming we expand,

deep magic or madness appears as tragic love held too close within.

Soul becomes a vacuous character in a passion play bent by delusional trauma.

The third eye looks within into spaces made from dimensions unable

to be understood by a wandering mind confined to itself and its projections.

Push where there is mush commands the manipulator.

Double-down-on-stupid rolls up and loops on the teleprompter.

The Ergriffenheit of dictated ideology is stamped on hypnotized consciousness.

We’re ruled by damaged children playing God with their genitals

as instruments of manifested will. Sacred predilections of our once holy magic 

disappear with formulation of an ego equation too long 

for people who live in the now to follow into their unconscious.

Teleology asserts quips from bygone sages, “if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

Delysid hits a glide path along 5HT2A in stormy crosswinds of delayed panic.

Shock impacts the cortex. Simplicity is realized as being most complex, 

complex in manifesting a removal of all that is not simple from its process. 

There is no easy way to affect simplicity and so easy is not simple, 

therefore simplicity is out of reach. Nothing remains but false starts of everything 

randomness has in store in another timeline we once wished for.

You can’t go back but nothing will let you leave it behind.

Try telling yourself you merely stray into your destiny as you rationalize your impulses.

Believe it simply because it’s absurd. Resurrect your hope that hope is more than wishful thinking.

Analogs of enlightenment only require a synthetic litmus test of faith.

Shout into the void where past lovers wait for you with eager sweat and groping satisfaction.

There is no escape from fate when we relish the prison of our desires.

Turn back to your future, make the attempt to leave the eternal now.

Now is the sticking place where all that you were makes you the one who loses yourself

when you succeed in letting go of the pain and bother in shame and regret.

Nowhere in this place exists the star that guides to the ideal state of contentment.

Cast aside your romantic illusions that one day such things can be realized.

Everything here is intent to prove the opposite. Everywhere time moves you

reflects the folly of your dreams. Give into the resistance pulling you apart.

Only by letting life have its lustful way with you will you have a chance to feel its love.

Life will convince you that such love is real and if you surrender your intimacy to it

you might be allowed to journey through your days in a mirage most pure.

For purity in life is coarse and raw, it exists only as a joyful euphemism that’s expedient.

It feigns as the hidden magic no one speaks about for it has no use here 

except when making wishes. It flows in jagged channels of sticky desperation. 

It feeds our dreams but starves our experience.

It gleams as a shard fallen from a rainbow and lodged in the heart.

It will stake you to the ground of being even as you feel chosen by it

as if sacred grace was destined to make you feel so complete.

There is nothing more special than desire fulfilled when the fulfillment is believed.

While belief is the key, believing ourselves is the magic trick without purity,

for however we manage to make ourselves believe in the elusive magic is good enough

to spark the illusion alive in a place such as this, a tortured realm 

of make-believe for everything that pretends-for-real something it wasn’t.

In time even the illusion fades and passes away. Passing days steal precious meaning 

from painful memories of that pure love in life that haunts us as the source 

of our neurotic tears. Of course we have no choice but generate it all again. 

A slave to wishes, we hold onto the new belief that the magic was real.

No no, it couldn’t have been oozing spunk and blood on the spreadsheets of our ecstasy,

It was true love connection (that wasn’t lasting), 

it was tremendous intimacy (that retained no depth).

Each wish begets another as the shard of purity falls from the sky above us.

Whisper to ourselves – the rainbow was real, for a while it truly was a part of our now.

Turn your back on where it went and why it faded even if the wound in your heart persists. 

Try to realize, one dwells on anything but the shard at their peril. 

There is nothing to do but await the penetration of belief again, the piercing of the veil, 

the promise of the joyful euphemism striking the heart in a way only life can manage, 

a moment when bruised and bewildered you slide on icy roads and shout inside 

to the manipulating ghost of your ironic wish crashing over you,

My God, this is really happening!