Fluffy Fever Dream Symphony


By Scott Thomas Outlar

Contrarian values escalated to the highest peak. Uppercased and placed on a silver pedestal. Superhuman friction fundamentals scratch against the metal spike, working out all the rough edge elementals. Flashpoint of degeneration as the species takes a high voltage dose of vaccine liquidation straight to the head. Recalcitrance flows through the muddy stream until reaching a waterfall of sludge and scrap iron plating. Pencil neck, bureaucratic, chicken hawk, fuck faces fudge numbers to get a bigger budget for their war profiteering schemes of madness. Evaluation ceremonies in the high loft take place on the backroom casting couch. Sell your soul for the mighty dollar. Suck and slobber your way up the corporate ladder. Confidence man plays the rubes like a used rubber. Trashcan pinpoint vomit alert. Laser sharp letters light up the neon sign billboards on Broadway. The vultures know just where to swoop in. See the attitude of mercy being decimated as all the parasites come running for a feast.

Beauty incarnates upon the earth in low frequency reverse osmosis radiation sent from the heavens. Pouring down to saturate the skin pores of a polished gene splice after the final flood. Waking up the comatose and shaking loose their cobwebs. Fever dream theory escalating consciousness via a rising crescendo of sublime orchestral accompaniment. Sipping lemonade in the sunshine. Tanned flesh from the heat wave. Electromagnetic pulsations splashing the pages of a novel theory. Original content. Genesis point. Propaganda laced and published to alter the mindset of a virulent minority.  Vitriol and Vaseline released from the depths. Rise up from thy fat ass and break free from thy confines. Shackles of gold are still tools of entrapment in a gilded cage. Better to walk freely without chains than to rot away in front of a television screen. Drooling automatons on one side. Awakened, passionate, full throttled, highly aggressive cavemen on the other. Battle positions assumed. Ready, set, fight.


Lovely intentions wrapped up in sanguine desires. Force fed down the throat of a blacklisted neurotoxin. Stuffed gut. Warped adrenaline. Chemical pollution enters the bloodstream. Hormonal shifts reverberate across the eons. Lackluster performances by the backbiting minions of the mob majority come up short when it counts the most. Always second rate in their third-degree communications. Heavy lighting. Poisoned questions. Venom spit from the parched, blistered lips of a rattled viper. Startled, scared, scarred, and sanctimoniously slithering away into the soft underbrush.


I wanted to write something happy and fluffy about cotton candy clouds and blue-sky mirrors that reflect the perfect truth of reality. I wanted to say a few words on the glorious imagination of a Creator so in love with its creation that fireworks are set off in celebration on a nightly basis. I wanted to dive into the deep end and dwell upon the magnificent underbelly of an oceanic masterpiece. I wanted to sing songs of Selah into a diamond studded microphone and praise the dancing Egyptian iconography as it splashes across the walls, staining them in clay hieroglyphic portraits of empirical success. I wanted to lay down in satin sheets of silk persuasion and get caught up in the art of love with a bombshell beauty set to explode at the tip of my finger and touch of my tongue. I wanted to lick the sweet sweat from the sticky skin of an ice cream daydream melting in the summer swelter. I wanted to ride the cool waves of a calm breeze to places heretofore unknown.  


I wanted to document the discovery of an island where pink caterpillars crawl in concert to the chorus of monarch butterfly bliss as they drift serenely through the air toward their next incarnation. I wanted to submerge to the dark underbelly of insanity only to rise again upon an emerging tide into perfect peaceful coexistence with all reality to prove the wild point of inherent chaotic order in the extreme methods of universal madness. I wanted to blink in and out of the third dimensional awareness in a quantum shutter shift as reality shudders and shakes to the quaking magnitude of a fault line fading into sublime upheaval. I wanted to take a dry run on the wet slopes of an open plain while cascading and careening to the rhythm of a coalescing energy field vibrating in the back of my mind. I wanted to see the light and hear the hum as my third eye bursts open and radiates with incandescent indigo flashes of neon pulse waves. I wanted to ride the serpent and chase the dragon until the ensuing high hits unparalleled levels of emotional ecstasy and my body spontaneously combusts into a fireball of high frequency vaporized steam.  


I wanted to know the truth and taste the peace and suck dry the bones of empathy. I wanted to understand compassion at the core nexus where new nebulas are birthed into existence by an implosive force of laser sharp intensity focused solely on evolutionary progress toward peak performance of consciousness throughout the cosmos. I wanted to rain down with a symphony of blessed purification to cleanse the world with a flood of blissful rejuvenation.


But you can’t always get what you want…

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Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He is the author of seven books, including Songs of a Dissident (2015) and Abstract Visions of Light (2018). Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 14 languages. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.




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