Page 3 of Fishbowl

disconnection, and being alone. In addition, the section contains battles I had with myself. Wanting to express myself more and from bonds, but somehow being dragged back into shadows.

  An Owl & Four Trees

  As I return from the colony of sweat and peel off my illuminated alien skin,

  the frantic hounds of night dance in the ribbons of pleasure,

  desperately begging for a slight dose of euphoric enchantment,

  dismissing the residuum to come,

  dismissing the gentle thoughts and harsh volcanic suffering,

  dismissing potential of a blossoming Delilah,

  dismissing their own ignorant dismissal.

  Thoughts of mere anguish coat my otherwise unstable thoughts,

  beckoning for the subtle angel of ambition to bless me with glitter,

  glitter which can and will be morphed into a poetic blessing,

  a blessing which can and will heal the otherwise unstable thoughts,

  rupturing into a led enhanced captive spell,

  used to not dismiss but assist the sad day of other.

  Then who will assist the sad day of I?

  Could it be a tourniquet sustained with a familiar liquid,

  could it be a glimpse of what broken machinery is to come,

  could it be the sailing of obnoxious company,

  or perhaps the day never rising again.

  Maybe the sun will be devoured by moon,

  light turned dark,

  white coated black,

  walls splashed with a sea of deep ink.

  Ink in which I will glide,

  my wings sail from the droplets of words,

  dripping on to the clouds for the curious to see,

  the curious who are not tangled in the chords of modern engineering,

  the curious who surpass the serpents of PHP and HTML,

  the curious who have wishes of the past developing the future.

 

  Though the future of I will be lived on a dried leaf,

  for my head is a dead ladybird,

  a dead ladybird with a blue shell and white spots,

  and within those white spots one may find a lady,

  a lady with no arms playing delightful melodies on a cello.

 

  The bliss of those notes will revive the dried leaves,

  the chipped marble, the melted snow, the dissolved sugar,

  all restored through the beauty of sound.

  Sound asleep remain the rust coated heart,

  sound asleep remain the copper wiring of veins,

  sound asleep remain the melted bronze of blood,

  sound asleep remain the dusty archives of brain.

  We sleep together, lucidly pouncing through nightmares,

  chiselling away the footsteps on our friend's mountains,

  smelting the iron in which they spent forging a tower,

  drinking the water from every smeared reflection they see,

  then forcing the clouds to cry just so we can drink some more.

 

  Once our thirst is quenched the minor will howl,

  pointing their fingers at the golden tortoise,

  followed by a hailstorm of stones and saliva,

  ensuring any sparks are extinguished,

  because being gold is a sin within a tin world,

  only narcotic lobsters and crocodiles with fur may lay here.

  Even blooming in a bubble of education will cause rumbles,

  they will shake the puzzle box, smite the struggle,

  then ask for the exiting pathway of the maze.

 

  As the exit draws near, the suns will descent,

  my ambitions will be absorbed into a void,

  the royalty of cables will scream at my uttermost effort,

  as they glide through purple petals with minimal try.

 

  Before I glide through purple petals,

  I will rest for a desert of time,

  my passion will be soaked into the stars,

  the night sky will be brighter than day,

  I will no longer remain and owl that,

  is torn between a tree of four.

  I will accept others unacceptance,

  and glide through purple petals with beaut.

  Before you glide with me,

  explore your deepest dreams,

  dance around the white rooms and bounce on the railways,

  eat every object in the room to feel the taste,

  and live within the remains of dissolving doorways.

  Stand before the greatest mountains,

  chisel away until they are tiny rocks that fit in your hand,

  then crush them and laugh as they form waterfalls of dust,

  only then you have control of your world.

 

  I push myself through the pigeon hole

  I push myself through the pigeon hole,

  a small, delicate dove forcing takeoff.

  Once free, I climb up towards the clouds,

  a gentle bird, gliding above the battlefields below.

  It is almost silent up here,

  the sounds of gunfire and war are muffled.

  Finally I can think,

  I can be myself without the savages of war forcing change in my choices,

  I spread my wings wide and glow as a white light in the sky.

  Despite the harsh black smoke and moments of rain,

  the air is clear. I can breathe.

  Almost.

  I was so close to flying through the forests of freedom,

  so close to being my own bird.

  Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my left wing.

  The war turned silent.

  My mind froze, my body numb, my stomach a ball of mush.

  Panic and pressure as I push myself to keep going.

  Sweat soaking my feathers, a shallow cry in my call.

  Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my right wing.

  They did it.

  This is the end.

  They shot me down.

 

  A long lost deception

  If I had one more eye I'd be a Cyclops

  then maybe I could see the elapsing time.

  If I had one more tongue I'd be a pangolin

  then maybe I could actually express a rhyme.

  If I was a dinosaur I'd be a T-Rex

  with arms the size of people's slander.

  If I was an animal I'd be a fish

  with a voice louder than a war commander.

  but I

  I have, confined critical conversation to

  digitally enable voices with programmed pencils.

  I have, unfairly dismissed those afflicted

  then attempted a perfect circle without a stencil.

  I have, willingly isolated the common voices so

  I could rest in comfort with a shoeless misconception.

  I have pressured my veins into pressuring me into a long lost deception.

  and if

  If you, tell me the glass is half full I will laugh and say it is empty.

  If you, offer me bread when my skeletal form is glowing I will refuse.

  If you, take my hand and try to guide me through the clouds,

  I will chop that shit off and fall face first to the ground.

  I just

 

  I wish I could write more poems.

  My desirable anxiousness really has a lot to say,

  but my anxiety screams fuck your thoughts and forces my fingers to rest another day.

  Am I thinking in the dark am I

  I painted the sun black

  with the pastel under my eyes

  The sky a silky red

  with the blood rush from my thighs

  The moon it did not show

  too bright for these affairs

  The clouds they just move slow

  as I exhale my gentle airs

  The sun it attempts to glow
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  but the mountains they stand tall

  Soon to be covered in snow

  like Christmas at the Berlin wall

  Edison the shadows are active

  thinking in the dark am I

  Some find goblins attractive

  others just tend to lie

  The poem becomes a strange one

  confused the reader may pry

  Ask who painted the black sun

  am I thinking in the dark am I

 

  Alone on my bed

  When I sit alone,

  alone on my bed,

  my bed asks me why,

  why my eyes are red.

  I tell it not to worry,

  worry about your springs,

  because springs can turn rusty and I hate rusty things.

 

  Magnetic Birds

  Magnetic birds

  fall below me

  on to my feet

  into the sea

  Magnetic birds

  swallowing seeds

  sleeping in grass

  chewing on weeds

  Magnetic birds

  stuck to the clouds

  absorbing the light

  resolving the crowds

  Magnetic birds

  bring me the light

  open the sun

  rise of the white

  Magnetic birds

  follow me home

  please guide me to

  my small concrete dome.

 

  The path of white figures

  I close my eyes and enter my mind,

  everything is black.

  A small, vertical, narrow path is lit up in front of me,

  it fades the further it enters the abyss.

  As I walk the light guides ahead.

  Down the path I notice a white figure, a silhouette of sort,

  it looks like a couple holding a baby.

  I approach closer and the white figures become clear,

  I notice my mother, father & grandmother in hospital,

  as well as myself as a newborn, laying in a nurse’s arms.

  As I attempt to pass, I hear sounds of joy and subtle arguments,

  I turn right and see all the figures are moving,

  the room is arguing over who gets to hold me first,

  of course my mother wins the debate, exhausted as a pyramid slave.

  I look onward,

  in the far distance stands another figure,

  to the left of the path this time.

  As I get closer I see myself as a child,

  about age five, stood in a running motion.

  As I attempt to pass, there are sounds of childhood laughter,

  I turn my head and see myself being chased by a bunch of other children.

  I remember the moment; it was my best friend’s birthday party.

  We were playing tag but with a twist, if you were caught you had to do a ten second dance to give everyone a head start.

  Back on the path I see a figure to the right,

  as I near, the memory is already
Thomas W. Morris's Novels