It’s Not

They travel through telephone wires
In discoloured energy sparks
Of whites lined with cobalt
Inside shadowy helixes
Of indigo blues
Entering emptied homes
Of tapered glass walls.

Deceptions in fabrications
Of deciphered loves
Without bodies;
Just a soul.

Erroneous sounds escaping
The thinnest lines of
Must be realities that
Could make the world fall apart.

Like the last time they blew it up.

Disorientation

Is it possible to fall in love with probabilities,
To fall in love with a soul that’s a maybe,
To fall in love with intangible realities.

Then why is it that I have fallen
For the just barely.

These semblances
Keep resonating inside
Archaic echoes of concentric conceptions
Of discomforting dazes in ecstasies
Where eyes of a deranged criminal cackled
Then cracked in crippling dins of
Dined vehement emanations.

Integrations of cyclical motions
Deduced as fragments of
Kaleidoscopic ignitions.

Still,
With her nonexistent voice,
She urges:
“Push”,
Within exceeded pain thresholds
In jolts of crumbling lulls.

Replications

The outer circumferential visage
Of isles laden with iridescent ores
Stained in champagnes and marines
In glimmering idiosyncratic meanderings
Surrounding nitrogenous asphyxiations
Of igneous deposits bent in silicon sheens
In plausible replications; seditiously contoured
Altercations met in disfigured capabilities
Exchanged in electronic measures whittled in biases.

Unraveling fates in magicks or in numbers
Within fabrications once anointed: reviled.

Unable to cast vapours, sans-senses,
Of the catalyst and its manifestations
Absolving it as wishful resonances.