Marchino Madness

"...your soul slips the stupor..."

Shredded strands of striped voices; calling out, reaching for the flesh beneath the skin; prying the crystalized pieces from the earth, where separation seeks itself and neglectance roots its origins among the bronze neutrality - unnaturally nailed into wooded forests, green blankets of silken dreams descending; replenishing the seasonal migration, in-motion mistaken mistletoe.

The cherries may be marchinos - a madness exposed, where undressed upon the pool table your voice becomes a recording; or your soul slips the stupor and we live as machines; selecting our jelly beans, cautiously controlled; paying our dues; working the dollar; dancing along the sidewalk in foolish clans of chiming fumes.

We enhale the paint of rusted restlessness, pushed by impatient monsters watching our back in selfish loving resent; never touching the dimmed glow, never catching the arrow, never knowing what a difference we are.