11-19-2025, 11:16 PM
Bookhouse
In a dream storage room,
all the books never written
are as potent as those that are and were.
Everything is novel,
with the fascination with love,
Queen Eros is a man-eating plant,
not natural in ages.
I cling to the newness of Dulcinea
as she jumps bodies,
the newest more alluring than before.
Like that, a world publishes,
records bloodflow in letters
sent like angels possessing
a soul that exists in time.
This is the classic consciousness.
Unconscious doesn't exist.
Aware keeps the tab
of the things already consumed.
My record collection is my medication.
The prisonbricks are freedom for a while,
while prisonlife, another rhythm,
ends in another slant rhyme.
In a dream storage room,
all the books never written
are as potent as those that are and were.
Everything is novel,
with the fascination with love,
Queen Eros is a man-eating plant,
not natural in ages.
I cling to the newness of Dulcinea
as she jumps bodies,
the newest more alluring than before.
Like that, a world publishes,
records bloodflow in letters
sent like angels possessing
a soul that exists in time.
This is the classic consciousness.
Unconscious doesn't exist.
Aware keeps the tab
of the things already consumed.
My record collection is my medication.
The prisonbricks are freedom for a while,
while prisonlife, another rhythm,
ends in another slant rhyme.