Chris Moran
REVENANT
A precise circulation of God’s name saturates a false transparency. To suffer
Illusions directly on-screen in this primal field is to lose it all. The field is saturated
To graze on the lives that live. Through every shade of imagining, the esoteric
Is what gets me. There are pills for that. To lose all sense of self and time
And disappear into pure energy. Sensational, the throbbing orbs. The seeds
Of death will harvest in the haze the bounty of life. Matriculated atmosphere
Resigned and vacant. Concentrated stillness receded to the lore of marginal tapestries.
Hypnogogic splendor in the void. A sieve of expectation through glass abstractions
Vacated the moon. A sundry dimensional whirlwind. Substance touch.
A Hole to Hell
Maybe thought’s an empty gradient
or an ornament of suffering
Travelling through planes
with awareness raised
Monads
Eat sun
The night is so righteous
Nodes of singularity in air ablaze
Fulminating auras
So
Lifeless in my decay
A horror
Of
Total emptiness
Shimmer with life and exceed the sum
My signature’s the sun
Decoding death at every turn
An astral fire
Binds me in a trance
A portal
A wear and stain
A braid of errors
Tracing worlds
It’s best not to see
A virtual flow settles this
The hand is placed into the circulation
Of a detuned sky
See a gradient
A dissolve
Dead undead and knowing
Travel through distant wounds
Lateral wounds and dazzle death
Icon of death
