Bloom Goes The Lotus

Patient ingredients feign the why. Ancient graffiti stains the sky. The galactic street artist painted the horoscopes and wrote the word of God (Uni, Krish, Sate, Buddy, Ali) on a post-it in year 0000 when all was the premonition of a big turtles eye. Bloom goes the lotus. Immediately transferred to the room with hocus pocus. Upon mediating you can shift the proper focus to unblock her and allow the ouchie echo like an opus. Settle in it. The sound of a sentient. You see, with a cosmic conversation, color is the face. Inward inclination is to nobody’s distaste, unless of course off course. 
Which is some cold shit to write, cheddar sun chip with my boxers on sight screaming yippie Kanye I’m alive holdin tight to the purple and the pink to my left and my right. In order to build a thirst for knowledge, one must have a hunger for thirst. Don’t need seconds, but I’ll take thirds. Don’t need heaven, but I’ll take birth. Don’t need Devin, but I’ll give words anyway cause a penny’s aching in my pocket like a renegade. So far from home little one, where is your mother? Last night in a dream I had finally learned to hover, but when I woke I was strangled in the covers. Typical lucid Lucy tryna intervene with goosey. But is he guilted? The federal reserve had served you milk but you spilt it, now what do we do when the flowers start wilting? Cause we’re in a drought but our sheets are made of silk so to wash the wonder down we gotta shake like a tilt. Put another quarter in, now your fifty. The decor in the arcade is shifting. You’ve decoded the matrix but ya still feel iffy cause without all the latex your body’s not lifting. Now where are your instincts? The pelvis is a chain link. Private property of Socrates but will you save a spot for me? Accept my apology for performing a lobotomy? Ok that’s a lot of me. If I don’t loose the lottery, will you go on a cruise with God and me? And if I do will you sit at the bottom of the tallest tree and sing me a book or read me a song or build me a colosseum? The horseman hides but I can see him, I’m not afraid of the highs and the ceilings. But terrified of the thighs that I’m fillin. If I crawl back inside that’d be too good a feeling but nirvana in the night’s sounding mighty appealing… So caught up in rhymes and words and clever curves and play and clay and fawns and ferns. I forget what I’m saying, what I’ve learned. Someone teach me to peach tree and preach with some substance. I’m too caught up in being silly and loving. Not serious enough. And yet, hearing this, I scoff, stop the whirl, I wanna get off. Actually, I wanna get on. I finally see I’ve just begun.