midnight remix

dancehall
shakes with thunder

hips

hands 

and
clocks 

reach
for the
sky

innocent
   touching
      of lips

#katyamills

ghost. tower bridge

Minutes before midnight we were passing through letters and numbers of roads. The harvest had grown thin with the moon, and the night was lit in pockets by neon-spelled vacancies between empty lots and service stations on the main thoroughfare. The fires of hell had been subdued by the fighters, and left a tinge of smoke to permeate the valley air. I hugged my sweatshirt close and listened to the engine of the truck as you brought her to speed. The tower bridge was in sight now, outlined by spotlights facing up to the sky. The river swirled quiet below in the dark, turning and churning and yearning for sea. We could not help but seeing a figure, taller than life and draped in unknown layers of cloth, standing in the middle of the street at the entrance to the bridge.  I looked at you and you looked at me. A chill came across our engines, as we thundered on by in the lowest of gears. The figure stood perfectly still. I tried to see who it might be and found myself looking into a void with no face and no name, and no resonance of life, none whatsoever! We both knew instinctively after passing, not to look back. I looked down at the body of water and saw some reflections of light in the water. The bridge underneath spoke out against the weight of us...thus had we crossed over.

midnight revelation

Just awake between sleep, I found myself in (or caught another case of) immaterial space. I was walking around barefoot still dreaming. My soul dripping out my eyes and pores. Out onto the hardwood floors. A pretty sight indeed was I, all highlighted bedhead locks melting the poor midnight stricken clocks. Controls were set for the sun. I mean, my controls went naturally to shut her all off, spray her with toner. Witch hazel to seal up the truth inside, I thought. No one can stand it anyway. People have no time for that kind of time exposure. It gets in the way of the work that needs to be done. Incessantly. But it was only midnight! there was no reason for reason. Time had no grip. Know what i mean? No large clock bearing down upon the neck. All bling had been discarded. The truth was pure and uncut, the road signed by starved dogs lingering between panhandlers. The semi conscious clarity on the Tijuana side of san diego. Eyes afire with deprivation. Call it free association nation. All the things the world is trying to express worked out right there, in front of the mirror, as i unlocked my bedhead and grabbed my hair in my hands for that primal dreamy scream! as my censor got take down for the shake down, tossed up against the fence, bouncing off it at the border of this holy land I only get a glimpse of, at times like these, getting drenched with another kind of knowing, painted bare feet grounded on the hardwood, these midnight conscious reveries. Only proof is the fog of breathe on the mirror, dissipating in reaction to the air again.