NICOLAS OSBORN

Stranger than fiction,

a call from the wild,

time to return to cliches,

through to the camera obscura,

and with that the umbilical chord that penetrated it.

The embrace,

the collapse,

return,

return,

eternally,

mein wanderers.

We have become mass consumers of our own minds,

in cerebrum malls,

a distant, subtle yet burning self loathing permeating the substances,

in the canals of our subtlest bodies.

Pirates in gondolas.

The neurotic throb,

subterranean in jolly tourists.

Yet we skip, chorus like,

miss the nomad.

That gracefully receives the refusal,

time and time again,

the snub,

the chronic snubbing.

To take a look,

a look,

just one,

which might suffice to bring down the glacial palaces of suspended scintillants,

forever recharging the transparent pipe of hard anaemia inducing rocks.

And the irony is,

if perceived,

and our times are for that seeing,

as always reinforced with the solid concrete blocks of a hypocrisy,

so crisp it has turned white with thresholds surpassed…

silicon to plasma.

And again love finds me,

on this conquering waxing gibous night,

peace,

yes, peace,

again,

welcome,

a middle so gentle,

so finely balanced.

That even the demons are suffused to a surrender, oh so molecular,

swaying at the hips.

Slow motion,

white rock’n roll,

beige rock an roll,

warm,

powdery,

10 thousand frames a second,

superimposition,

morphing,

a second,

gushing duplication, a retina can’t fathom,

and this it’s bliss,

and peace again.

Thank you.

Copyright, 2014.