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Sensory Deprivation (collaboration with Nepenthes)

Little glass milk bottles on the doorstep.
Tiny sand dunes in the morning sunroom.
Pulverized silicon, obsidian reflections.
1700 degrees of separation, molten ash
In the bedroom. What a scorching thought.
Peregrination of the mid-day moon.
The lunar sky is always black, they say.

Flowers sway in the radiating heat
Soaking up the light pulsing through
Bending away from the penetrating glare
Like a greenstick fracture, breaking slowly.
Fragrance trapped inside silky colours
Leading like smooth slides to a funnel of gold
Rainbows shatter prisms of dawn, they say.

Satin spar crafters in pink and white shackles.
Practiced rangers on the plains allow doves
To proclaim permutations. The windows
Are spitting with calcite. Times are lurking.
Sand is burning. The hands are turning.
Black alabaster halls in the midnight sun.
A whimsical tease, smoldering in the breeze.

Splintered thoughts float on waves of moonlight
Embalming creaking hinges in sheaths impure
Metamorphosis beckons, amalgamating fragments
Into works coherent and cracking,
Plaster framing desires in moulds leaden, solid,
Palimpsest of all that has ever been in this
Greenhouse of burning cinders set alight.

A fanciful excursion into mirrored flawlessness
Castaway medallions, crumpled in a waste basket
Capricious masquerades rejected by the crystal.
The amorphous solidity of a sinuous liquid dance
Ancient polymers for our truly naked souls
Searching for bleeding cyphers in blue-green quartz
The kilns are raging with furious passion.

The wide penetrating vastness ripped open
Into dawn, dusk, daylight, chasms in between
Where jewels shining like dull ornaments
Lay ripe for someone else to steal
But the conscious mind will never be privy
To all the musings of the unchained soul
For we are bound in this furnace of truth

Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 504 times
Written on 2006-10-15 at 11:06