A Fever Dream

Across my world a tainted rainbow rounds paths towards the sky.
Made on paper dreams held with paper nightmares, twisted in knots
We sit in seats waiting to rise, and seen ends grip unseen earth.
My place in the spectrum will be sky blue. Is it irony
That my power would blitz in the hanging sky, which dares cap us,
Or am I made water, ubiquitous, a being more divine.
On the horizon where I fear I fall undone underneath,

I’m watchman to hustle hoards that jade me in live confusion.
I’m a photon stuck somewhere between my world and it’s realness.
I hang like a carnival ring on the greased prize of the earth.
The prize a blue marble, I’m grit and oily where we might touch,
Cast in chicken fat which asks every dawn that I decompose.
That I trade a sheen of ultraviolet for earthen fashion.
The horizon asks I set the trends fierce upon my shoulders.
The horizon asks I set the trends softly down to the ground.
My mind mingles with ultraviolence, I’m asked to calm down.

I knew that the job of getting a job is a thing of grace,
Expected to average six in single machination
While efficiency’s lost with thought about empty dinner plates
I shift shifts to capitalize further on efficiency.
Forgetting whether or not I learned to remember the way,
I recall highness in the blue; I’m one of the privileged.

I’ll soon round the sky sky blue, passing twisted the first finish.
Yet somehow the first finish is preceded by prequel series.
Released on Netflix, to be continued, already renewed.
Hustle hoards extend viewing subscriptions as I hang on high.
I bounce from eye to pixel tracked in a grand legal ballet
Whose seating is opulent and reserved on the astral plane.
The show’s in 4-D, from most angles empty seats audience
As fans, players, and would be critics stack, lined, past the door.
They are politely told they have arrived late for the theatre.

I sit in the rainbow, and I dread the coming horizon.
Even as I know it cannot touch me, that I lense the sky.
I sit awaiting the break of the horizon that pins me
Which limits a madness of life if simply turned, is denied.

— Michael Joseph Bellamy

Michael is a current student, aspiring writer and professional in NYC, and when not studying or doing things, he enjoys collecting expressions of nonsense. You can contact him at mjb2246@columbia.edu, or follow him on Medium or Twitter

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