Narrow and Expansive

In the haunting narrowness
Of that place
Is a reservoir of peace
I want to float into
And lose all the noise
That which makes my body ache
And my pupils dilate

To see only
What’s right
In front of my eyes
Lose my mind to my senses
All other places
Thoughts and feelings
Gone

It’s selfishness
And it’s selflessness
Others all gone
And self all gone
Just the purity
Of the narrowness
Expansiveness

Grinding One’s Teeth in a Dream

Falling to a state
of chalk, running existence
over anything
which might just create
a beyond
to this not-quite reality,

this echoing chamber
in which washing one’s hands
of all thoughts,
and this chalk
-like existence,
this echoing chamber,
is longed for.

Why like the chalk on my hands
do they speak
in the echoes and feelings,
uncomfortable static,
like grinding one’s teeth
in a dream.

But existence is real
for some,
so they say,
but how do they reach that reality.
How do they reach what is real
to get rid
of the chalk
and dim echoes.

Flightless Birds & Fireballs

Flightless Birds & Fireballs by Nicholas Osborne

The Dirty Limerick

I am not love, and
lust is no object I possess;
attention is a cardboard city
strung with garish Xmas
lights.

I am not man or woman—
my present state attained by
psychosomatic chromosomal
elimination.

I am not indulgence or delight;
the food I chew is cold and
bland, plucked from a gaunt
metal grid under the pale
light of a wheezing
refrigerator.

I am not corporeal, my
two-dimensioned body
won’t be discovered in
sunshine or by dark,
for I have sidled
into a realm of gray
on gray—an endless
archipelago of mist-clung
uncertainties.

I am not the skeleton key to
your locked strongbox of
happiness or despair—
not the kindling or the
matchhead to strike
sparks upon your dry
desires.

I am not genius, nor am I
revolution at the tip of
a sword, the end of a
gun, or in the gleaning of
catchphrase words on a picket

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