he shrouds himself

in invisible blank



the futility

of sauntering

someplace, anyplace.

painfully indiscrete.

was it all a dream?

a lambent cream

spread across his eyes?

last lifetime, the drinks were many

and some found their way

into this morning's hazy



I've come to believe

the amnesiac

suffers the worst agony of all.

a floating existence

culminated from moments ago.

             an anchorless boat

             adrift in seas of consciousness.

And the ocean looks kind of like

T.V. static.

those underneath

drown in headachy havoc.

where every grain is a memory

screaming in different directions.

only in slumber

can he harness the white noise

for what it means.


pours over the soul

in form of a dream.

             the liquid blankness of death

             in its nightly,

             prepatory visit.

The amnesiac

rummages through empty drawers

before falling afloat into sleep

trying to doze back his first kiss,

and re-thread

his psycho-fiber.





on a parallel stratum.

If only his eyes could turn inward,

oh, how he'd fathom (himself).

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