​Hypomania

“I shut my eyes in order to see” —Paul Gauguin

First, I heard:

Sensei wreck sheet carbonate surprise,

Alabaster polyester porcelain demise,

Hooligans (west end) offer mercurial promises to velveteen slipshod railroad mechanics.

And then I saw:

Lately Sally supposes surreal standoffs in the Mexican arroyo, with dreams of salmon clouds at sunset, before the puzzled braille vested crones who prefer tobacco smoked from long pipes, generally at the campfire undergoing a campus wide reform of the sloop footed diamond merchants from Reno, who enjoy assorted multicolor jellybeans in a glass jar on a tarnished silver platter that revolves around the dynamo alleyways somewhere in Brooklyn, that passenger pigeons carry various messages to the oriental kings of Lebanon, who while smoking hashish from obsidian blenders, obtain permission from the logical outcomes of Texas sheriff’s, whose bronze stars are testimony to the virtue of underground smugglers from Detroit, who carry whipsaw chain mail forecasts of elemental snow, that blankets the alleyways of allergic sunshine princesses who carry six golden rings embedded of surprising rubies that sparkle as eloquent as Eleanor, when she recites the average Congress of Buffalo, its circuses whose tents are multicolored with ice cream and velour, decorated with satin ribbed Bannisters of the Napoleonic dessert forecasts, mentioned by somber newscasters often on channel six, on a TV sitting on dusty brown carpet that Molly needs to vacuum, before she practices ballet while listening to flamenco Texas trumpets, that are golden but dented as proof of the eventual circumstances related to Nixon serving lukewarm oatmeal to two goats named Betty, who would obviously rather be elsewhere but the train hasn’t arrived, stuck somewhere in Idaho before Christmas icicles eat dizzying amounts of mercantile forecasts: of the eventual Mason jars filled with marble of barometric colors that are bland to the eye, but fortunately usually aren’t real but in the imagination of fourteen sporting huntsman who pursue something they would rather not think about, unless it comes back to haunt them before the November marshmallows bloom beside the poisoned creek where vehicles go to die having exhausted all diesel from the stack of…

Medications.

I think…

I think that the Seroquel is starting to work, thank God, so I can get some sleep and my brain will let me rest and I won’t be compelled to write and write and write.

I hope I can get some sleep, and my thoughts slow down. Too fast for logic.

The Medications, slower, a little harder to think, but yeah I think they are kicking in.

I hope.

My God, my God, why with eyes closed, why do I keep seeing?

Rationality abandoned, leaving a confused landscape of a fractal kaleidoscope of irrelevant thoughts arising from the frontal cortex in all probability due to severance of sense, somewhere else while the thalamus stubbornly ignores the screams of melatonin far from home of the confused pineal, undoubtedly calcified by the government, intent on keeping us locked in a matrix so we can feed the reptile archon who enjoy the culinary delight of various vicissitudes of misfortune and woe, us being farmed by prophets for profit who profess to propose that ignited salamander registries of the cash register black buttons , but missing various letters from aunt Edna who sends her best regards, with chocolate Valentines Day cards, made from red construction paper protected by left handed green safety scissors issued in second grade, by a matronly attendant offering grandmotherly kind regards, sifting through the silhouettes of earthquakes that shatter the dark tower flanked by sickly yellow lighting by a God whose name we all forgot, who is bored with the tapestries of clouds made of wool , soft as pillows.

Pillows?

Sleep? Sleep. Sheep beep and heap, steep oblique essence of moronic suitcases filled with the debris of yesterday’s newspapers.

Time for sleep, if I can.