Where to fell the Rocket Dad… your pink profile of glitter and descending scales. Prog with a child’s glee. Trees that stand tall, properly, stature in a certain “no motion”. Awake with a vision, your sunrise looks a constant dawn of another terrain. From here we meet in a similar vision, a secret shine on your lumps of sweet mean pastures, red haloed, corniced bevies of saturnalia. There there are many shrouded portals, etched and narrowing… a very small opening lies far at the other side but can only be reached through entering that certain thatched darkness, the hovering in an exalted in-between.
“All Trees Stand Tall”
The Greg Foat Group
In a starship a dialogue is taking place. The random conjurings within certain lofty absence-spaces. “Not yet”, says several figures at dawn that which carry great elixirs tucked in their pockets. Beauty in the disconnect. In this time-lapse manifestation there arrives sweet-coldness-comes brightness-all illustrious. A shadow then luminescent cinema where rhythms collide and the trajectory of them goes smoothly outward on a warmed glacial pool. Reflets dans l’eau. A transitory trajectory, here fiercely still continental = beyond the far. A fine line has been left as determiner of the past. The issuing of these allusions and preludes are the marks of soothsayers, cascading alms onto passerby’s.
This precipice, shards of a certain sky with faith-beveled edges, a terrain of the craggy wondrous. Jagged rock strewn terrain through which arrives at a chasm or portal to the beauteous, to an aspiration, to a hope-ellipsis. This lone wanderer knows of a trespassing that has one arrive through splinters of light, a chasm achieved illumination. One hand lowers and grasps your delicate wrist…the entity says keep your feet firmly below on this crawled earth and I will direct you to its splintered lit porous ceiling illuminated as sky. Just as one recognizes the thread-consciousness, it is upon itself and unknown again.
Ed Scissor and Lamplighter
“The Pink Sun”