Minds But A Ghost Poem by James McLain

When you enter
and some other cold woman exits.
The land of all day
hot burning sand until night falls.
Uncover the puzzle solving problem kind of month
when the head which awakes criticizes
the drugged lot of dreamworlds made of sulfur.
Too many it means are many so deeply,
looking at tonight's dream,
morning, the clock in the space of color the hair.
Vanity the mirror
which does the preparation but separates naught
which face you twist into tomorrows mask.
This is the kingdom of each departed spirit
where each young body seeks atrophy,
Being knotted, not of the laundry
where the conventional bundle of the oracular illusion
the seat of your power upon which you rest
diminishes with the tip of the pin, when it popped.
It is friend your symbol of farewell, as is my hand their.
Looking from the moon, looking from the earth
two worlds of time and this point between the space.
Whom when made two is compatible completely,
the raw materials our meat and thought of the potato.
Suppose nimbus of ambrosia like manna, ' being disclosed.
And so it starts.
Therefore before in what becomes again,
you speak of the seat to which these each are raised
with a sign
sought out in any language of the afterlife.
Where it is gone,
Waiting meekly they each are our abnormal plays
and the world where it loses by my awaking.
Dragging the rag of the exponential a vessel
most with just the fringe left outside our world, worldly range of vision, this illusion in the sky goes as the hand,
the way if it, the way it if,
That rock of yours the earth is many,
those which are there have known God.
The points in the sky represent the admiration a sign like the
comet of the star with the bright yellow display of sound.
Leaving Eden that circular period of green you displaced, discontinues the first start your each point and start on that side,
and it comes under your next new moon letters type, I curve.
Illusion and the father of our mothers, our illusions go,
and our dreams are but your Illusions
and the child of those from which you did take seat
now show ragged at the edge,
The keeper of disrespect of O the skulls which look,
at the dream of the cup.
That you emptied over and over without ever his asking.