unboxed dreams

The Garden
A garden:
In which roses shrivel,
In majestic shades
Of red.
Where blossoms burst
Into an array of petals,
Raining down
Like shards of glass.
Through which odors flow
Which delight the nose,
But choke the lungs.


The garden
Delights the senses we hold in our hands,
But destroys the feelings
We hold inside.


A Shock of Illumination
A spark flashed
Across an expanse of darkness.
The world surrounding
Was shocked into illumination,
Which cast things,
Momentarily,
Into a new light.
The beauty burst
With the light.
The eye
Awoke from its slumber
In the blackness,
To a shower of brilliance.
But after each climax of beauty
During its short limelight,
The beauty would crumble,
Shatter,
And plummet
Back into the returning darkness,
Leaving the mind to ponder the light,
And its wickedness.


The Steadying Hand
A hand can reach out
And steady a body,
But can it steady
The broken heart
That is wavering
In its disillusioned state
Inside?


Divine Hand
show me the divine hand,
so i may shake it,
and maybe
some of that
infinite wisdom
may rub off
onto my hands,
that i may
gain from it.


The Collage
fit me into a black & white collage,
pieced in among the starry wonders,
and the darkest evils.
the coldness of my expression
placed among the highest joys
of love and happiness,
and the deepest pains
of hurt and hatred.
i will fall down
among the jumbled montage,
yet i will never be lost,
for among the storm,
never is one forgotten forever:
we all surface at some point
in order to breath.

XII.
The Disfigurement
When I cast my eyes
Into the spell of the mirror,
I wish to see my face disfigured
By the beauty of yours,
Standing before me.


I Dream of Flying
I,
Want to,
Fly,
So high,
That I,
Can touch,
The clouds,
Stars,
And moon.


Hidden Realm
I am a young man;
A tall young man.
A man of many worlds.
Worlds in a new realm.
A realm contained in one space.
The space that fills my head.
I live in a realm;
Untouched by others.
Exclusive to me.
Catering to my whims.
Pleasing to my desires.
Fulfilling of my fantasies.
A kingdom;
Where I am king.
Where I am alone.
Where I am safe.
Where I am divine.
Where I am isolated.
I am a recluse;
In my own mind.
Wandering my brain.
Hitching a ride across my head.
Waiting for no one.
Greeting nothing.
Nothing surrounds me,
And I welcome it.


Awakenings
I arose this morning,
Awoke to a sullen world.
The grey fog.
The cold breeze.
The stale air.
I remembered you,
Why? I'm not sure,
But I remembered your smile,
The I had to laugh.
I thought of how I'd loved you,
How wrong I was,
How rash I could be.
I was stupid
To believe:
You were truthful,
You were smart,
You were mine.
I fell into a slumber,
Slipped into an imaginary land.
The vivid colors.
The warm breezes.
The fragrant aromas.


The absence of you!


Footprints of Illusion
a footstep,
seemingly behind me,
but neither there,
or before.
both sides
free and clear of footprints,
and so I continued.


the gentle sound,
repetitive,
dull,
of sole hitting pavement,
followed me.
paranoia.
fear.
trying to see in all directions
at one time,
but failing to see
in any.


the footsteps,
stomping down upon my head,
crushing me with each thud.
I stopped,
it stopped;
my head released from the torture.


gripped with pain,
I looked down,
and where mine should be,
the thudding feet of another, were.


Headache Vol. I
"How can your head hurt?
You never do anything
anyway."


Maybe if you stopped doing
this and that,
this thing here,
and that thing over there,
maybe you wouldn't be this, way."


"You're too stressed out,
try relaxing,
act as if nothing is wrong,
and everything will be better."


"You watch too much T.V.
It's the things you eat.
It's that music you listen to."


The tick
and the tock.
Seconds, minutes, hours
they all take commission
from the migraine
and his mob.


Pain is the present
that the milkman replaces
each morning,
so that you never have to run out
of the chronic pleasure
of an untimely pain.
You can pick up the pain
and twirl it about
on your finger,
watching it spin 360 degrees.
But watch
as the form dissolves,
burns through your finger,
yet leaves the hand
so that you can forget
what happened.
The primal rhythm
droning out from the drums
which are beaten by the Gods
whose chores are all done,
and for whom
there are no good shows on cable.
Tit for a tat.
Eye for an eye.
A headache for a headache,
and but another,
and another,
and another,
till either the cows have come home
or have rotted in the fields.
A carcass
is a beautiful thing.
It symbolizes the feared pain
of death,
yet it suffers no more.
The shriveling boy or girl,
man or woman
who sits in the jaws of pain,
and is being ripped apart
at an ever-changing speed,
while the world 'moseys on by',
stopping only to check their reflections
on the frosty mirrors
that are your eyes.
Those who are the living carcasses,
who are eaten by the pain,
look nice and healthy to the eyes
of those turning their minds
from the world of fear,
of pain and suffering,
of which you are a resident
and therefore a contaminant.
Roasting hot dogs
over an open fire.
The flames rise in a brillance
of reds, yellows, and oranges,
but those flames do not just disappear,
they seep in through the skin
of the unlucky,
and roast their minds,
and burn their vision
so that they believe
that the carpenter Jesus
has appeared amidst his halo,
and is pounding with his hammer,
and tightening his vice
until our heads fit
through the little hole
marked square.
Tripping over the cracks
that cover the brain's surface,
falling flat onto the pain,
like a nail hammered into water:
the nail disappears from view,
but the pain of the nail continues
as it falls
and falls
to the ocean depths.
Another headache?
Time for another cover-up coat
of fresh paint
to hide all
from the eyes of those outsiders
who are disgusted
by your talk,
compairing your mind
to a knife
being shaped in the fierce fires,
as the molten metal is formed
till the knife cuts so sharp
through the last strings of sanity,
then as you shrivel
and fall away,
you wonder what has happened
to all of the nails
that have been pounded
into your head,
and why aren't they holding you intact.
And now sprawled around,
a bit here,
a tad there:
a short article
in the back of a magazine,
or a lost chapter
in a book explaining
the pain and anguish
of the common cold.
All of the people in the world
are waiting at a lazy train depot
set in the middle of nowhere.
They all wait for a train,
any train to take them somewhere,
when the rumbling
comes shaking through the station.
Most of those waiting
turn their heads,
expecting to see a train,
while the rest's knees buckle
and they fall to the ground
clutching at their heads.
You can never tell someone
the pain of a headache,
for the language we speak
is not a language of pain.
You can never show something
that no one wishes to see,
and you can never convince
those who deny
that the pain which disables you,
can even exist.
As the tide comes in once more,
looking around
you see that most
are learning to swim,
while you,
and a few others
stand cowering in fear:
in pain:
in a mix of emotions,
and physical feelings,
where you can no longer distinguish
a pain ripping through your body,
from a pain running through your mind.


Headache Vol. II
Sitting in a tree house
made of marbles
and soda cans,
looking out
over a horizon of crystal,
leather,
and gold.


The glitch starts simple enough,
a marble falls
from the weak glue
found in the back of the garage.
You sit on,
watching the sun,
as it dances
for the crowds at Carnegie,
and the masses in Hollywood.
You hear the sound
of glass
hitting cheap glass,
and you turn
to see another marble
rolling around.
But the painters
are still throwing on
their oranges,
and their reds
in fits of indecision.
The crushing of cans
and the cracking of marbles
rumble in the background
of your sunset.
The noise,
as it rises,
gets softer as you drown it out
with the subconscious
woofers and tweeters
of your mind.
The sunset still changes
as the artists
smear on layer after layer
of paint
in their quest
for the perfect match
to the crystalline skyline,
the soft, plush landscape,
and the glittering people
of the valley
and world below your feet,
as they dangle
in the warmth of summer.
The noises grow louder,
and momentarily push past
the fences you have built.
You can hear the collapse
of the treehouse
crafted by your own hands.
The rumblings arrive,
and they try to shake you
into awareness,
but you stare out dumbfounded
as the painters are waging war
to see who can create,
and who can just paint.
The sky grows darker
and darker,
until the layers of paint
slip into each other,
and the sky shines
deep black.
The crystal shimmers,
illuminating its environment,
as the one around you
is falling apart.
One can,
then another
as the trembling
sends marbles and cans
this way and that.
The pounding emerges,
and now the skin
falls under attack.
The pelting of flying objects,
and the shaking of the tremblors
crumble the treehouse
in which you sit,
and as you fall
from the loft
that stands no more,
you look towards the skyline
and wonder why its earth
hasn't shaken,
you look towards the landscape
and wonder why its surface
hasn't been ripped apart,
and you look towards the people
and wonder why their bodies
haven't been pelted or beaten.


But before you slam into the ground
amidst the world you created,
you realize:
that no hail has fallen,
that no earthquake has struck.
All of the trembling
and all of the pounding
was just a brainquake
that shot off the Richter scale.


Bottomless Well of Questions
sitting upon the edge
of a grave
without a tombstone,
and a hole
without a coffin,
I wonder
what is the plan
for the world to come.
if death is to come,
to whom will it,
and when?
and when death comes,
will it take a life
without a name,
to make a tombstone
unnessecary?
and will it take a life
withouth a body,
to make a coffin
unneeded?
if death is to take
a nameless,
and bodiless life,
has it already taken
our own?

The Garden
A garden:
In which roses shrivel,
In majestic shades
Of red.
Where blossoms burst
Into an array of petals,
Raining down
Like shards of glass.
Through which odors flow
Which delight the nose,
But choke the lungs.


The garden
Delights the senses we hold in our hands,
But destroys the feelings
We hold inside.


A Shock of Illumination
A spark flashed
Across an expanse of darkness.
The world surrounding
Was shocked into illumination,
Which cast things,
Momentarily,
Into a new light.
The beauty burst
With the light.
The eye
Awoke from its slumber
In the blackness,
To a shower of brilliance.
But after each climax of beauty
During its short limelight,
The beauty would crumble,
Shatter,
And plummet
Back into the returning darkness,
Leaving the mind to ponder the light,
And its wickedness.


The Steadying Hand
A hand can reach out
And steady a body,
But can it steady
The broken heart
That is wavering
In its disillusioned state
Inside?


Divine Hand
show me the divine hand,
so i may shake it,
and maybe
some of that
infinite wisdom
may rub off
onto my hands,
that i may
gain from it.


The Collage
fit me into a black & white collage,
pieced in among the starry wonders,
and the darkest evils.
the coldness of my expression
placed among the highest joys
of love and happiness,
and the deepest pains
of hurt and hatred.
i will fall down
among the jumbled montage,
yet i will never be lost,
for among the storm,
never is one forgotten forever:
we all surface at some point
in order to breath.

XII.
The Disfigurement
When I cast my eyes
Into the spell of the mirror,
I wish to see my face disfigured
By the beauty of yours,
Standing before me.


I Dream of Flying
I,
Want to,
Fly,
So high,
That I,
Can touch,
The clouds,
Stars,
And moon.


Hidden Realm
I am a young man;
A tall young man.
A man of many worlds.
Worlds in a new realm.
A realm contained in one space.
The space that fills my head.
I live in a realm;
Untouched by others.
Exclusive to me.
Catering to my whims.
Pleasing to my desires.
Fulfilling of my fantasies.
A kingdom;
Where I am king.
Where I am alone.
Where I am safe.
Where I am divine.
Where I am isolated.
I am a recluse;
In my own mind.
Wandering my brain.
Hitching a ride across my head.
Waiting for no one.
Greeting nothing.
Nothing surrounds me,
And I welcome it.


Awakenings
I arose this morning,
Awoke to a sullen world.
The grey fog.
The cold breeze.
The stale air.
I remembered you,
Why? I'm not sure,
But I remembered your smile,
The I had to laugh.
I thought of how I'd loved you,
How wrong I was,
How rash I could be.
I was stupid
To believe:
You were truthful,
You were smart,
You were mine.
I fell into a slumber,
Slipped into an imaginary land.
The vivid colors.
The warm breezes.
The fragrant aromas.


The absence of you!


Footprints of Illusion
a footstep,
seemingly behind me,
but neither there,
or before.
both sides
free and clear of footprints,
and so I continued.


the gentle sound,
repetitive,
dull,
of sole hitting pavement,
followed me.
paranoia.
fear.
trying to see in all directions
at one time,
but failing to see
in any.


the footsteps,
stomping down upon my head,
crushing me with each thud.
I stopped,
it stopped;
my head released from the torture.


gripped with pain,
I looked down,
and where mine should be,
the thudding feet of another, were.


Headache Vol. I
"How can your head hurt?
You never do anything
anyway."


Maybe if you stopped doing
this and that,
this thing here,
and that thing over there,
maybe you wouldn't be this, way."


"You're too stressed out,
try relaxing,
act as if nothing is wrong,
and everything will be better."


"You watch too much T.V.
It's the things you eat.
It's that music you listen to."


The tick
and the tock.
Seconds, minutes, hours
they all take commission
from the migraine
and his mob.


Pain is the present
that the milkman replaces
each morning,
so that you never have to run out
of the chronic pleasure
of an untimely pain.
You can pick up the pain
and twirl it about
on your finger,
watching it spin 360 degrees.
But watch
as the form dissolves,
burns through your finger,
yet leaves the hand
so that you can forget
what happened.
The primal rhythm
droning out from the drums
which are beaten by the Gods
whose chores are all done,
and for whom
there are no good shows on cable.
Tit for a tat.
Eye for an eye.
A headache for a headache,
and but another,
and another,
and another,
till either the cows have come home
or have rotted in the fields.
A carcass
is a beautiful thing.
It symbolizes the feared pain
of death,
yet it suffers no more.
The shriveling boy or girl,
man or woman
who sits in the jaws of pain,
and is being ripped apart
at an ever-changing speed,
while the world 'moseys on by',
stopping only to check their reflections
on the frosty mirrors
that are your eyes.
Those who are the living carcasses,
who are eaten by the pain,
look nice and healthy to the eyes
of those turning their minds
from the world of fear,
of pain and suffering,
of which you are a resident
and therefore a contaminant.
Roasting hot dogs
over an open fire.
The flames rise in a brillance
of reds, yellows, and oranges,
but those flames do not just disappear,
they seep in through the skin
of the unlucky,
and roast their minds,
and burn their vision
so that they believe
that the carpenter Jesus
has appeared amidst his halo,
and is pounding with his hammer,
and tightening his vice
until our heads fit
through the little hole
marked square.
Tripping over the cracks
that cover the brain's surface,
falling flat onto the pain,
like a nail hammered into water:
the nail disappears from view,
but the pain of the nail continues
as it falls
and falls
to the ocean depths.
Another headache?
Time for another cover-up coat
of fresh paint
to hide all
from the eyes of those outsiders
who are disgusted
by your talk,
compairing your mind
to a knife
being shaped in the fierce fires,
as the molten metal is formed
till the knife cuts so sharp
through the last strings of sanity,
then as you shrivel
and fall away,
you wonder what has happened
to all of the nails
that have been pounded
into your head,
and why aren't they holding you intact.
And now sprawled around,
a bit here,
a tad there:
a short article
in the back of a magazine,
or a lost chapter
in a book explaining
the pain and anguish
of the common cold.
All of the people in the world
are waiting at a lazy train depot
set in the middle of nowhere.
They all wait for a train,
any train to take them somewhere,
when the rumbling
comes shaking through the station.
Most of those waiting
turn their heads,
expecting to see a train,
while the rest's knees buckle
and they fall to the ground
clutching at their heads.
You can never tell someone
the pain of a headache,
for the language we speak
is not a language of pain.
You can never show something
that no one wishes to see,
and you can never convince
those who deny
that the pain which disables you,
can even exist.
As the tide comes in once more,
looking around
you see that most
are learning to swim,
while you,
and a few others
stand cowering in fear:
in pain:
in a mix of emotions,
and physical feelings,
where you can no longer distinguish
a pain ripping through your body,
from a pain running through your mind.


Headache Vol. II
Sitting in a tree house
made of marbles
and soda cans,
looking out
over a horizon of crystal,
leather,
and gold.


The glitch starts simple enough,
a marble falls
from the weak glue
found in the back of the garage.
You sit on,
watching the sun,
as it dances
for the crowds at Carnegie,
and the masses in Hollywood.
You hear the sound
of glass
hitting cheap glass,
and you turn
to see another marble
rolling around.
But the painters
are still throwing on
their oranges,
and their reds
in fits of indecision.
The crushing of cans
and the cracking of marbles
rumble in the background
of your sunset.
The noise,
as it rises,
gets softer as you drown it out
with the subconscious
woofers and tweeters
of your mind.
The sunset still changes
as the artists
smear on layer after layer
of paint
in their quest
for the perfect match
to the crystalline skyline,
the soft, plush landscape,
and the glittering people
of the valley
and world below your feet,
as they dangle
in the warmth of summer.
The noises grow louder,
and momentarily push past
the fences you have built.
You can hear the collapse
of the treehouse
crafted by your own hands.
The rumblings arrive,
and they try to shake you
into awareness,
but you stare out dumbfounded
as the painters are waging war
to see who can create,
and who can just paint.
The sky grows darker
and darker,
until the layers of paint
slip into each other,
and the sky shines
deep black.
The crystal shimmers,
illuminating its environment,
as the one around you
is falling apart.
One can,
then another
as the trembling
sends marbles and cans
this way and that.
The pounding emerges,
and now the skin
falls under attack.
The pelting of flying objects,
and the shaking of the tremblors
crumble the treehouse
in which you sit,
and as you fall
from the loft
that stands no more,
you look towards the skyline
and wonder why its earth
hasn't shaken,
you look towards the landscape
and wonder why its surface
hasn't been ripped apart,
and you look towards the people
and wonder why their bodies
haven't been pelted or beaten.


But before you slam into the ground
amidst the world you created,
you realize:
that no hail has fallen,
that no earthquake has struck.
All of the trembling
and all of the pounding
was just a brainquake
that shot off the Richter scale.


Bottomless Well of Questions
sitting upon the edge
of a grave
without a tombstone,
and a hole
without a coffin,
I wonder
what is the plan
for the world to come.
if death is to come,
to whom will it,
and when?
and when death comes,
will it take a life
without a name,
to make a tombstone
unnessecary?
and will it take a life
withouth a body,
to make a coffin
unneeded?
if death is to take
a nameless,
and bodiless life,
has it already taken
our own?

unboxed dreams 1
Table of Contents
Words Never Spoken. Copyright © 1991 by Matte Elsbernd. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.