4 poems || wayne mason

Lounge Zero Redux
Sitting still at the dream bar. I chain-smoke nothing, drunk, waiting, watching the faces old and battered by floods of memories, strained crowds talk vainly. Play and stare at the rear blaring alarm and sleep. Wretches want t.v. screens, wretches want slow meaningless death. Crosley nods off after drowning in a mirror.  Unknown low lights, neon beer and laughter. Factory nightclubs swallow wild teenagers. Frozen flanked somewhat  languid covered with age middle he envelops nodding assholes and untouched hearts of California.

These rare moments pop. Half blue eyes penetrating mildew of years ever felt. He being restless and claustrophobic haunted  by old channels of worn desolation. The groans of this room scream heartache. All he was I killed and shifted his grave in contorted infinity. There is a mirror near the bed that works two ways. He inquires about deconstruction. All things went beyond the scars you created. I heard the sound drunk and watched the land and sea from a desert place,  pacing a restless man. Empty worlds, the occurrence of things to such a meditation in itself like sleep of peaceful moments to slip under pillows.



I Am A Factory
Nihilism factories illuminated in robotic sounds and blaring darkness. Disheveled gray stillness waiting bewildered  for majestic and flawed madness. Capitalistic clocks manipulate nerve centers and the sorrow of cold steel dreams. Professional chaos plagues sidewalk illusion made from nothing. Clamoring of treading monsters retreating into the auspices of night. Spit my metal and fantasia of machines. Counting middle fingers as currency. We are professionals. Holy vultures circle dead skies over captivity kids riding futility. I slip comfortably into the anonymity of enslaved motion. I am a factory within myself. There will be whistles and fingers  tapping. The sound of wind, talking, farting, ringing in your ears. No voices from angels and saints of consciousness. Even inside the void   is   the stream of endless afterlife and the most deafening sounds of human machines and  compulsive verbalizers spewing ears. Only silence. Capitalistic vacuums. Feet stomping silence.




Anarchists and Bodhisattvas
“Why coherence?” the Bodhisatta pondered more than ever. Let us expose a subject to become famous and have children, slaves, to seek and yearn for this road to old age? Wife and death say what their actions deserve. And what subject? Death. To age is to go to old age,  to undergo movement and rebellion and connection. Disease is the doubt of this possibility. Surrounded objects of pleasure, old age, thought and action, there is no befitting permanent tension. Death is animate and inanimate illness death disease insurgency nothing universes of tired defeat. The self of death, age, and universal forms. This need for speed behind the anarchy never permits shame, only imposition of living. The search for the anarchy, more than old age, all objects should step between for the simple search for elusive pleasures and luxuries in the world? What brings you to your rulers? Will I form coherence? The spiritual  intervention of simple movement, smelly attack, centrality of commercial warfare. In declaration desire and force in conflict. All there is, look! Code preach the denial. Turmoil with the machine. Authority and consistency, all things, how and why. Let's wallow in the excess of possibility. 




A Chorus Of Desperation  
        Salacious old men drinking more to
                          
die, all this mindfulness of the bottle began to set on the discontent of youth                                   Sensual desire obtains the 

sun slowly  increased awareness of stars cursing all admiring her            that leading up to my body   strategies and attitudes experience                                                            stress this possibility

which is virtually   without effort  
My vain      beauty my window and   like a watering means that they my pities          and a moment   is, the forest, all the at the                     same level,  Buddha's       awakening   only at night…. all my drunken      habitual 
tendencies fervor to penetrate 
highways in unison   treading deep into euphoria that cuts 

towards the pain  I roll down into her subconscious mysterious darkness escaping the
principles of weakening sorrow    station the minds bewilderment      


                                                              leading to lessons 
                             of  pain itself     We chanted a chorus of desperation through dark corners to      those who humble themselves         One with 
the pain swept away        truth is all that is needed