Poetry from Pascal Lockwood-Villa

Redirect to Self

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I come home in Eucharist

Body slanted in brown-and-broad-faced praise

The simple shape of this Gemini

Made for Taurus 

(I’m born again

Among stars)

The fabrics that strecheth and bindeth me are no more,

Cast away, deemed false

Deemed sacrilege

Deemed too cool

I’ve always wanted to call myself a r3b3l


(apologies for the outburst)

This is my temple, my history.

This is my sacred Hell

This is my poisoned Heaven

I ask you to come and worship

Hand in hand with me

And live neither dead nor awake

But dreaming all the same

Dreaming till dreaming becomes too much to bear and the urge to lead some great parley with the sandman bears strange fruit

Skin bagged like dying men

Flesh downy like sheets

I ask myself:

Why do we 


Worship what we can never obtain?

The static of the commercial world wedges a sea of product placement into my endorphin-dependent sludge 

I used to call you brain

But you have since become 

(insert Egyptian word for brain) 

So that a witty comparison centered around the ancient belief that 

The brain’s only purpose was to hold apart the ears and the heart

Did all the real thinking

I suppose they were mostly right

‘Cept I don’t think that makes me any smarter considering my track record

I still pray to altars of IKEA wood and Amoeba plastic

I still try to use hooks to remove the wart I call reason

I would lay with Morpheus happily

(speaking as a straight man)

If it meant the sleep was dreamless

And deep

And the clock stayed silent

For as long as I am waking

There is nothing left to do

But if I dream

Then there is the lover-shaped void that I tried so hard to fill with broken people

Never bothering

(until now)

To see if I fit myself


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