Ahem. This is some instantaneous poetry. because I have itchy eyes and a stuffy nose and that makes it hard to work on essays & stories and things.

We run though quicksand walls through the halls of grasping dreams,
Fighting reams of soundproof souls, whose barricade ripples without rip, plays without playing,
Slays without slaying the harbingers of night's rapture,
'Til all else is nonsensical, reprehensible slurry of half-thought vowels, shot through bowels of crude digestion, harking way to quicksand walls, through halls of grasping dreams,
we scream, and find ourselves falling sidelong,
Run fast enough and life's a pit, halls are holy, so they told me, but truth is they're just holes
So skydive, stranger, hold on tight, falling through the endless night, a hug is halfway to a fight,
deadlocked in a duel,
push away and kick your feet, fall back to the line,
of quicksand walls, and choking travesty, traversed by cowboys on the dark way,
In deserts of the flat-plane land of thought's demise,
Tell them lies,
And they'll call them stories, making it less awkward to live with,
So they say,
And still we play the game, down the snakes, up the ladders,
Down the halls whose quicksand walls
Suck
'til past them tripping on your face
through the desert's smooth embrace
You walk upon the next face, tripping off the tongue to places & faces new and rough,
Twitching muscles tell a story, maybe sad and maybe gory,
Maybe light & happy too,
Maybe just a face.
I wonder,
Which is more permeable?
Less the flesh, more the soul,
Howl at darkness, and the moon,
But it's the howl, not the moon,
That makes the night.
~