White Porcelean

White Porcelean
bending smoothly
around shiny metal rings.
Beautiful tiny things,
like bonsai tree sculptures.
A marble imagining.

Miniature trees
shedding layers of personality
in the season of Autumn memories,
Sifting through the black velvet ashes;
for diamond leaves.

Origami Dragon

A paper staircase,
cradling origami figurines.
Descending, one by one, into a well
of triangles and shapes.
Folding the windows and the floors,
step by step, into layered animals.

The walls,
closing and bending around doors
opening to reveal
petals of tradition,
Planted in the stairwell
of a red
Origami
Dragon.

Psychadelic Wonderland

White Rabbit
Run, Run, Running
with a blue-dressed figure close behind.
Go Ask Alice why the tunnel is receding.
Forget your mind and take your seats,
the theatre, is now feeding.

Trip, Trip, Tripping
into the rabbit hole, sipping
on dreams and clocks.
And her mind is ripping through a
Tunnel-Visioned Wonderland.

One pill for each extreme, a
stream of consciousness, a
dream of tears.

The Caterpillar, hookah smoking.
Psychadelic Mushrooms toking.

The Mad Hatter, sipping tea.
Laced with lines of insane poetry.

While the Cheshire Cat mixes the invisible
with the insane. Pathological lies
penetrating the Cerebral Membrane.

And meanwhile, back in the Mushroom Patch...
Fluid smoke is swirling around like a Purple Haze
swimming through a miniature forest of
chemical Acid epiphanies.
Psychadelic Surrealism.
Pouring liquid rainbow colors across
a vast, radiant landscape of
electric lillies, glowing softly.
Illuminating the synthetic fantasies
of the subconscious imagination.
While the third eye is staring
through The Looking Glass.

And now, this Bizarre Dream,
is suddenly turning, into a nightmare.
"Off with her head!" screams
the Alqaida Queen.
And once again, little Alice is
Run, Run, Running.
Falling, into a Bad-Trip, Slip
Slipping into fear.
Losing her mind, Reality Ripping,
Poor Little Alice is
Trip, Trip, Tripping.

Breathing Sadness into the sea.
Saltwater,
crushing sand, sparkling.
The oceans, opening
into the tides;
Pouring water through the moon,
with the gravity of sadness.
Brushing tones of
liquid sorrow
into a canvas of
crashing waves.

Previous Films

thomasgasper@sbcglobal.net