3am in the Morning (eyes the wrong colours...) by jon Lyndon


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Another dream. Another lost afternoon
Forgetting the thousand fragments
Erased fingerprints of memories
In burned holograms
And burned dreams
(burning colours): her eyes-

-and the pale smell of steamed rain bleeding tears
like flowers (snow falling in crystal circuitry and fractals cracked,
slow and opaque blue...pale white rain)-

geometrical lattices of lilacs for lament in synthetic lamplight, bending and bent...
the dyed jasper of lapis lazuli in lenticular layers
dissolving and dissolved...eyes within eyes...
sometimes leather stretched over lace revealing a
suffused reddish-brown lavender, ghosted eyes...
sometimes laminated lilium veneer as metallic film
saturated silvers
and shifted with plastic perfections
over fantastic reflections...
hallucined eyes...every memory and atom and ion scattered within, splashed within
scintillating like electric waves of synergy
soft-focused/uncut; badly edited...
colours drowned as chrome burns inside
eyes within...

Out there in the black cool of midnight highway
and hotels and white sound breathing
Breaking along the surf and the soft beach
That never seemed to be there.
Somehow you were always there, even if
I never was; even at the end of a recorded night
I remained just another ghost among shadows.
Heavy as horses in sunken gardens, as
Victorian stone: thru the eyes
Always thru the eyes-
-the soul's distant mirrors
distant as dry ice, and melting...

Then down the channels.
Down these streets of Jungian jungles, ghettos
Strange cities and places without names.
Stuck inside the peeling reverb of vertigo
caught in the slow swirl of pause, rewind;
stumbling thru the fractured shadows
the narcotics spin and the jazz of alcohol
into the submarine haze, and frozen-
-looking for you, for your eyes, your sound.
Everywhere the smoke and the chrome dust.
Ignore the dream and never ask why.

So many gardens out behind the illumined
abstractions of saturated windows
and bright, gleaming winds. Bruised avenues,
dead cinemas. Cruel cathedrals...
"Nothing matters, everything matters."
A thousand songs fade out and the night dies,
becomes a wounded valium whisper.
Dead calm in the blurred taxi ride thru
Boston and Berlin (thinking about Paris,
and the one you'll never find there).
All that misplaced wet neon... how I
cried for you, died for you, crawled for you;
then forgot why... you never cared. Hell,
I could taste it; your pain. So beautiful,
and perfect. You haunt me now; forever.

Your eyes in circles in recorded playback:
the sequence a slight editing slip
revealing an abnormally acute visual
of reverberate emotion of time in color and
flickers of brushed-aluminum light
as rotating holograms of multifaceted zings;
haunting and beautiful; vivid; real...
Someone else's eyes inside yours...
Eyes bleeding horizonless and translucent-

-eternal mist rising thru night from the velvet ice
of those violet eyes
stretched white from an infinite sun
faded thin, shone for far too long
drifting, and drifting...
a soft spray of glittering shards
shatter, shift and scream
a strange fusion of flesh and dream
indigo and verdigris
as a wall of curtains slides away
there, and then, there... flickering; fractured...
a lattice of desiccated vines
spiral away into fragmented crystals
geometrical wings
and frozen;
different spheres, different illusions
ghosts of blue-white oceans-

-how I vanished in those eyes, sunken gardens
sheets of fractal stars fading and dissolving
flowers into a thousand fragments
like television, like voodoo
so smoothe-

-and now the flush and you are lost.

Cheap chrome becomes the heart,
replayed and worn.
Sometimes I still taste you, sweet and
cruel. You, just an empty hotel, now.
Then me, an empty stool at the same
hotel's abandoned bar. Fragments of bottles
like bullets, as estranged perfumed laughter
filters, flutters, and floats thru the smoked-jazz air.
Three a.m. and broke; busted, flat.
Tired of moving in stereo.
Sometimes I look into the mirror behind the bar;
look for your reflection, walking in behind me.
Even though you never walk in
You are always, forever walking in
Thru the rusted metal door
Forever standing behind me
Your beautiful shadow flushed in failing neon
I turn looking for the ghost of your smile
And see only a busted jukebox that only ever
plays one song; something from Sinatra
and it always plays for far too long...
"I'm always under your skin, baby."

I finish my drinks and walk out into the dark day
of the cold wet streets, into the hologram fogged dawn.
The simu-jets on the glass above the city are memories
of you and your stolen eyes; the ones you sold
for a different life: fast, and gone.
They bought you for your talent and your look
and now, like dried up vines, you have become old film
left like lipstick on a glass of scotch;
and lost...

You are everywhere, and nowheres...
out among the flecks of gold,
under the geodiscs, under Rome
calibrated in glossied adrenaline
moving thru the holo-pages of
Hollywood magazines,
way up there w/ the Kyoto skylights
and the LA to New York glass temples
riding life like a Japanese motorcycle;
but you are already dead, living on someone else's pipedream
moving up higher and farther away than you've ever been
(ever did, done or seen)
further than you should ever have a desire to be
and you are gone, baby
edged off like a thunderstorm
and stepping over the edge
your expression blurred up polycarbon
radiated and saturated and done;
yea, you look great, baby
but you ain't you:
just another plastic mermaid hanging beneath
a thousand-watt bulb for a sun
and the only thing left that's real
is your gun.
you are everywhere, and nowhere, baby...

The plastic night sinks into a tingling rush of blood and gravity
dead in the rain, like a staind television
and dried feathers...

I still feel you sometimes, somewheres, baby
different places, different nowheres,
different strings-
when i close my eyes (the ones I wore at birth).
I can see all those artificial afternoons you gleam in, now
the creature you've become, the wings you've grown,
the eyes you've christianed from a liquid vat in some lab down on Hollywood Boulevard...
but I recall the ones we lost,
way out back there when the sands were high in the glass
a world in you that has come undone

another lost dream...
and I recall your eyes, the ones that stole my vision
and stole my heart;
now replaced by some glossied fantasy
another purchased dream...
and the night sinks into the photographic black,
and negative...
so I walk down the cracked actor sidewalk
with an alcohol sunset in back pocket,
and a videogram of your eyes in my cellular phone;
when the phone rings, holo's of your eyes
wink back at me in 3-D, and I smile...

"Somehow, when I think about you now, baby...
it always seems to be three a.m.
in the morning; even in the afternoon.
And the colours always seem to be
the wrong ones; gone artificial,
like your eyes."