And the dream marks everywhere.
Balloons and jet fighters.
Explosions all around.
The large and small of the universe demands attention.
F-22s blow weather balloons out of the sky.
But what of the internal patterns?
Punish the self ever so slightly.
Every so subtly.
Deny it flesh.
Make it the monk.
Deny it the hedonism of riches.
Feed it poisons and uppers and downers,
and call it yours when it’s only just
feeding itself – conducting its own hedonism experiment.
But to this body, the poison is a food – a difference to make to know
that it’s all a farce anyway,
And this character should know that punishment is
the stupidest of all games, and his freedom will come
when he’s minute-by-minute kind to this whole dream creation.
His skin, his ocean within.
His ocean without.
The salty taste of his blood.
His vibration of particles spinning round particles,
round sun and moon.
