nightly blankets

We are the travelers of the deep. The voyagers who don’t sleep
The nomads of this circulating night, the sight which covers an array of sights. We blanket the deep like masks, when reality needs sleep, we vanish the sight of the hidden for we’re reclusive, un-hindering and solemn. Detectable only when a shadow dawns, mourning comes and a new death appreciates itself. A cathartic element really, we are the softness when the lost soul avenges and repels the sickening reality, we are the ones are summoned to explain as plain as we can , you have perished from the world above, lost like a white dove in snow, like a mistral show.
We too are loner’s once sufferered, continued wonderers and cataract spreading messengers. Yes we are the ones who tell thy dead to swim a new risk. We are the ones who blemish the sight of the old and reprimand any attempt at its remembrance. We are a memorial really, the first these Jettisoned souls confer. We don’t ride in hearses for we are them. A black blanket, mobile and erectile (un-dysfunction), for we penetrate the nerving realism which needs intake.
Some say we are the dark here. The fact that others can’t see, but we are just an element of truth, for we have all always been dark. We just allow the assurance that darkness is not blackness, that one neglects sight while the other induces it.
We stretch far like literal blankets spread over the sleeping question. When we get ready to invite we excite the wonderful space that dreams and fantasies inhabit, then we syringe our minute tentacles, piercing centimeter by centimeter the epidermis of the now deceased. Though they come down as dead births, they still posses their old skins, their lipid flesh of darkened mesh. Their once visible trope made hyper by another’s invisible cloak. We must do the job for here is an ever changing sight and we are the messengers of first realisms. You’re dead. No longer will you need that layer which once cause you so much pain, not to say though that such pains have stopped, for the way we needle you, you will soon realize you are in a different type of slain, for we create a new stain.

We too elect...?

In the deep there are those very emblems of authority; seniority takes place where priority should instead. Busted in the surf like current of the politics of the deep. In this massive black, the serpent tales of our heads of state charter the meth labs of poiseness corners, they scour the ghetto shells in search for a sustained vote, the crackling sound of another term aches their backs and flusters their might, what they thought they had.
A blind shrill salivates nightly at the rubber back snail of a putrid hopeful, scoundrel and unintelligent, new to the ways of the deep. Our culture is carnivorous, but we still only eat that which we like. Bullcrab feet from the dead chilled spines, delicious when heads of state discuss their new forth right in the distance.
Down here the pellet waists of the neutral voices (the shit runs as we also call it), cancels the dizzying furnace of the one sided lust. They blemish the reason for being different, some like it and some don't. Our Jettisoned pimples burst at the sight of our new candidates for the left has preponderance of differences, Billipeds to Akuakians where's the right has only the sickly vestibule of wrinkle or elastically woven skins. What of the new elections in such girth, one wonders, for time draws near.

One Tooth

It does not bother me that I have one tooth, that sits orangy-yellow, protruding from my fish lips. It is right I cannot see past my erecting sculpture, my eluding pleasure, seeking an erudite treasure a constant measure of my stiffness.
My label sprung stiff on my back, this slick skin, oily and in constant secretion. Leaving a trace like smoke exhales making circles is this dense undercurrent, where it trails off too I don’t know.
My shinny coated patterns aloof in the sightless waters, sometimes I cannot even see my self, unless I’m with others of my kind, others of my time, others of the same sign.
Like timid bloated Saturns, I circle the constant play of the obscure. The core vibrates beneath and I round its synergy.
Most often though my stealth brings no produce, I’m given light, an enemy at these times.
These Stars dispense some pernicious veins through the un-visible night destroying most of my feeding attempts, with their luminous rains - they give sight to the constant blind and create sparkles of grease which exudes from my scaled surface. This makes my work that much harder.
If only to relax, un-stiffen to be at malleable play, then I could lay amongst the Orchikes, where a constant many come to and run to when I approach. There they circle themselves within the sponge like bubbles and laugh at their reflections on its mirror like tentacles. It sits and grows on the side of the rigid rocks, volcanic flames turned into this ocean’s deep, these Orckikes camouflage the once beautyless calcium build ups and sprawl loosely throughout and within their own made up landscape. They’ve given it beauty, they’ve given us all beauty, even I, who if to get too close, invites a death of horrible grim, but I wonder would it be such a sin, to forever bath in the hem of its love.
There would be ample plaudits from above, this I’m sure of. For many would want nothing more then the death of another One Tooth whore.