Ignore the vast foaming river
Of information flowing, far
Over rocks never worn, adamantine
Bedrock layer beneath the waves,
One’s will an ocean in storm.
A sweet zephyr winds through hills
Low rising rather than squat stacks,
Sloping sides call to mind madness
Long kept within, crystals catching
The sparkle of corruption, original sin.
What price could be paid, for surcease
However transitory? The soul deeds
Given up in promise of a life more
Than ordinary, yet painless, free;
Such promises are more dream than true idea.
Bright red bloom the opiate trumpets,
Hanging like devil blossomed fruit
In the otherwise dry forest on those slopes,
The waxy latex oozing, dripping, falling
From those hanging trumpets of sweetling death.
Mandalas of madness swirl high above,
Strange storms of charged ion dreams
Streaming in aether, a light pejorative
Cacophony called into physical spirals
Which make litten the red trumpeted valley…