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 Bratcher

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.