Iridescent Demon Dramas / by Laurence Fuller

Iridescent demon dramas play  beast like games and pour city champagne over dusty draws that sparkle in my guts. Pushed back into the past,  where Romance  joined it's aweful tune to the trumpet tunnels of the sky. Baskets of fruit usher summertime and the deep unending questions I feel too small to answer, too big for the little things, too small for the cosmos.

Treading the boards again, ghosts speak more clarity with more definite embodiment than what I can realize about myself in this discomforting pith of my voice.

If my eyes befell my fate would they speak with that same reflecting attitude of hope that is churning in me.

I want to know the creatures fighting eachothers discomfort in the basement of your forgotten master.

You want pain, that beaten flesh, that smacked up look you have when I grip your body. Wanting tension of the soul. Wanting to see me hunt, to see me fight, to prove prove prove there is more to it than waiting. To see evidence there is a citadel of myself outside these walls. Look out  the window of my eyes and see what I have built. This palace of desire took thousand lives stripped from my bare and vulnerable bones to make. The cement furnishings that wrap the gate are we built from the nerves and veins which run my body. You'll be surprised at it's towering spire and I want you to remember.

Where am I in your forgotten self, left squandering the scraps of a person I wish was. Lost in technique, other people's words, other people's thoughts, picked up tidbits from their reaching parcels of other people. Brushstrokes I never made and genius I was only listening to.

Chivalrous shining plates of metal armored bouncing mirrors of yourself onto my reflection. Massacre of the innocents, the intervention of the Sabine women, contorted muscles wrenching around golden shields. Turner saw in nature the handiwork of God and adventure found the Italians resting on the banks of the Rennaissance.

Ripped up solutions to get love he said she wants what's in your heart convinced of creating that small bouts of fear that you slip, take me for granted, I'm gone too soon, to know you I've got to see you bare, why won't you let me see you bare? Hide your dreams peaking through pin holes reflecting glimmers from windows behind doors under covers of trusting nightfalls that we'll be ok in the arms of disbelief, can't believe I found you, that you're different, all that I hoped I would find.

Sleep that rectified discomfort you were wrestling with, throwing diamonds against the wall hoping they'd catch meaning on their long way down to the chattering floor where they all live growing spider legs and scuttering the carpet for a home. Restless sleep made mornings drip away their spirits in time enchanted stings.

That imperfect silence, shifting sheets we bare naked skin on double touched memories of hope and promised that chink against a cracked mirror of ourselves.

Roaring golden fabrics rolling down walls of an art princess in an ivory tower carved by Irish craftsman, paid for by Victorian gentry in their quest for beauty. That steeple weeps and weeps like a beacon calling for another lonely spirit to join in that wayward peace lost in the furrows of discontent. I wish there was an easier way to live a more certain path for the guidance of art to be directed. Forever embrace this perfect moment in our youth it will be gone in time. Records will speak of that moment we fought for eachother in the war of love. Rusty battlefields of no man's land.

That masterpiece which beckons the soul in its unfinished state to manifest, beats at the door of your heart unattended threatens its discomfort to your waking state with the passing days sitting stubbornly at your footsteps wailing in a scratched unrelenting tone.

Where's that piece of me in it all, swimming through pop culture idiots to get to the seventh day that rare moment in time when we speak of matters that change.

Dust bins of light and music, mad rambuncious escalades of cultivated dialog speak of this moving earth, sons and moons braving the air to quiet solitude of time.

That promise of the muddy man that I am, brutish and ferocious in my heart, because I know who I am, flooded with bloody thoughts of glory.

What are you thinking?