Green flowers are contact lenses of calcium floating on the filmic surfaces of our slimy unctuous slippery reality. Dancing rubber bands of changeable spectrum analysis playing up and down a fret-board of light. God playing tunes on our eyes. Input converges. Senses confuse. Can we hear the eyelid movies? Are the bubbling sounds we hear the tinitus of everyday life? The pixilated points of our brains fighting for life in the darkness that brings relief in-between the madness. A blink. A nap. A good night’s sleep. A coma. Rip van Winkel.
Back to the spots.
Blue rings with yellow irises. In-between are indescribable matrixes of indefinable colours and patterns that stretch and vanish beyond the back-eye. Explosions that have nothing to do with anything we see consciously – not even the retinal echo of the brightest light.
The patterns recur until they become non-entities, and reform with the unfortunate monotony of our subconscious imaginations.
How do we really see reality without our learn’d filters – pantecnicons – giant arachnoid shapes with art-deco designer holes. Shiny walnut polished bodies with cockpits containing zealous shiny gluey men with whirligig arms – too many buttons