Boundless Reminiscence of Dreams and How it Felt to be Felt

There is a homeopathic ambiance of the too much of never-never.
Organic and empathetic, the rhythms hung between consciousness
and a thick tunneled subway station. The air is honey.
A native steel drum sings melancholy pockets;
quiet closets.

Skin was fluid like shampoo, pretty little fingers, pretty little
quandry of golden hues of purple lights on a big down bed. Here dream't to be a
Patagonian astronomer, the sky faded in essentially imperfect paradigms; in the color of shivers everything is blue. Many people die in Paris.
Some gasp for air, the deep breadth of meditation.

...the bass comes in, an aria from the breezes of compositions waft between bodies
who lie crooked. Someone is the cadenza.
Electrically tactile, the space between matters moaned until it spun,
more than just hollow, it is the dwelling of lingering summer.
Hot opaque religion was the devotion of the pupil, of the offered child
trying to interpret the pauseless language of the inbetween scribblings.
Silence came over domestic spheres, where men sewed lace chamois,
women crawled on their bellies, offering communion to those who ask.

There is a sharp desire to accept the body, to transcend to heaven.
A soft river of geometric rules divides the mouth. Provinces of
bubbled soda and ruffled toffee play cautious, motionless music. Where is the kiss if native lips
never presuppose a cigarette? Delicate touches, the chimneys of boundary are burning.