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.