Your carpet is a coastline-- we drift on waves of fuzziness, the rush of electric surf as the cool breeze of sound skips along our skin. Oblong reverb pounds against our chests, a bombastic beat down on the bass drum. Every synth stab elongates the room and suddenly the depth of our imaginative reach is nebulous. Filling the space around us with swollen thoughts we project our consciousness onto plaster that creates milky mayo masterpieces. A panorama where jazz is a unit of measurement, breath has frequency and gnomes dance like marbled ballerinas orbiting the Rings of Saturn. The amplitude of each revolution’s gravitational pull draws us closer into their watercolor wonderland. We shed our ego and join the psychodramatic masquerade, submitting to their mesmerism. Their gloomy visage collapsing when the next song shuffles and someone turns the lights on.
Mason is a junior at UNT and an aspiring poet. His surreal poems are intended to be an experience; captured moments of time when reality and fantasy blur.