In Mystery, inside of her eye– a single photon, silent as time, is born.
As her flesh is balanced in harmonies of starlight and blood,

the quarks of the Woman’s eggshell colored skin have sung the Universe into the dreaming dream of formless blue sleep.

A sapphire pulse emanates from the eyes of Heaven, spinning incomprehensible patterns of ancient bardic consciousness into the young woman’s field of being.

On Golgotha, she exhales a single tear; in the alleyway, she sleeps tangled in a nest of mathematical fire. On Alpha Centauri, she is the Embryo of God.
In the hell of her imaginary death, a single white whisper rises on a ruby halo of light balancing history on a God scented thermal. Pigeon feathers collect in the neon sign above her head. The sign, like the face of a madman, advertises only the Second Coming of Christ.

It is all she can do not to die laughing. She is surrounded by temples of bone.
Her skin is trembling with the punctuation marks of ancient alien dream scriptures.
This is the beginning of time. On the edge of her face; where nothing is known.
She finds her own soul, leaping in a strange carnival of everything becoming everything else.
An infinite incarnation. Permutations of the Great City of God.

She bursts into the white noise of a neutral uncertainty: waves, like prayers of the world are crashing into truth of her skin. The event horizon of her flesh seethes in zephyrs of the infernal orgasm.

Spring is the color of humanity’s life in the womb of the grave, she whispers. The UFO nests in her Uterus.
Materializing in slipstreams of schizoid ideation, as the earth resonates into a trillion hallucinatory ziggurats of exploding angel poems, her skin explodes into a probability ballet of a the Divine imagination.

She turns to witness her own birth, a billion light years threaded through spacetime.
In direct violation of the laws of thermodynamics, her soul flares into a moment of e3-
No thought. No meaning. No movement. No breath. No eyes. No life. Just death,
streaming through the Universe in a reverie of entropy and equilibrium, the madness of God.
The sky of souls boils blackly as thousands of thought-bellied birds self organize into rainbows of salvation high above the death of her head.

Consider the lilies of the field.
The birds are daydreaming in quadratic equations. Random numbers, like the fingerprints of Lazarus billow from the embers of hell, each digital teardrop brought back to life by the miracle of negentropy.
In the star spangled anarchy of this forbidden moment, the birds are like Christian troubadors spiralling into the crucifixion of all living beings. Their migration from the future to the past is a byzantine labyrinth of impossible mystery.

The ground beneath her feet begins to pulse. Vampire questions are born in the molecules of her breath.
She hears a train as it howls in the bowels of the endless night.
Her skin suddenly erupts into bioluminescent echoes of the primal delight.

She catches the jetstream of Infinity. Shangri La has ascended in her skin.
Her soul conspires with the Void in complete and total radiant love. Everything is alien; forbidden, everything is unknown.

God’s infinite imagination erases her name from the Book of No Meaning.

In maelstroms of meaningless theories, she whispers. She reaches into the face of heaven as it churns in the Picassoid geometry of the City Without a Name.

Bathed in patterns of movement and mystery; she walks in beauty, like the night.
Through a hurricane of imaginary numbers, her soul is a spiral of crystalline wings like Nijinsky’s ghost, lost in the false God’s point singularity, trapped in the Immaculate Perception.

She is, she says, she was what IS. A darkness? An undreamable light. A shadowy island undefined. Dendrites blooming in a thrill of trills. The supernatural dance

of the brownian motion on angel’s hooves. A blue flower laced in fractal phantasms; her mind opened into a snail’s antennae.

Then, in prismatic schisms, the angelic hooves balance on the Anvil of her heart.

Broken beads of sweat, phoenix fire, candlelight, spills like nectar through rainbows of of her mouth, coded in happenstance of an omniscient waveform the shape of God’s broken heart.

Every moment she died, but never once did she ever stop moving. So she says. She says so.

Moving. Drifting, shifting, moving. Walking like water falling through the sky writ in taoist love poems.

Maniacal sorrow of heaven.
Monsoons of dead clock logic painted it’s black rumor on the heart of her windowsill. Still frames of crushed holy silence.

Rush haunted into the cold will of time. her feet — on the edge of the street, thunder into anvils of merciless power, like

the trembling filaments of anemone opening into loves unforgettable language.

Through the dark ages, her feet are skeletons of white noise, dancing through strange patterns of baroque synergy. Into the renaissance,

touched and bewildered by quantum decoherence, She beaches her soul on the shores of perpetual motion;

balanced between warring quarks in a shadow play of Xeno’s paradox. It is moving through us, She says.

Her memory grows fat with the unfathomable heartache of God.

Her face erupts with kaleidoscopic apocalypses. A swirl of oceanic curiousity thrumming in rosicrucian furies.

Her Spirit lists leeward, rolling in a tantrum and fired by tides of the first endless karma of absolute unknowable love as she discovers she IS, in fact, the One True God;

and a trillion black umbrellas weep in perfect rhythm, like the eyelids of thundering baudrillardist simulacra,

whose indelible mad laughing

left the Temple of Emptiness alone in the Unquiet Qualm.

The blue cake of the transcendental vagina became the Palace of her Consciousness and her memory haunted itself in a crush of light;
she lifted the veil of her suffering ecstasy,

glowing on fingertips in a-temporal temples. Nothingness. Nine million knowledges.

She is a single dream in infinite variables. Bathed in the gestalt of instantaneous rebirth, endless simultaneity, the transcendence of future generations. Her heart is dripping mystery through electromagnetic phantasms bathed in sexual teardrops that leap into the stratosphere from the edges of her flesh like wild blackberries plumbing her throat for silence and particulate magic.

Always, from the void, She carries the swan songs of Nuclear Magi into opalescent pools of absinthe, lighting each step with delta wave fog of Unicorn eyed poppies driven by fate into the lungs of sorcerers trapped in what remains of the real world.

Gametes of her love hang in nine dimensional portraits of ballerina hearts on the Temple walls, each insurrection of shadow and context dying in resurrections of light in the cathedral-prison of infinite senses.

Doppelganger choirs pour immaculate voices from the chalice of their mouths on the cold summer street. She arrives, atom by atom by atom;

into a world chanting anonymous names, each bathed in the glowing Dusk of hyena’s tongues,

Godel’s theorem ripples in the whorls of a Shaman’s fingerprint trapped in the eyelashes of the dead God’s perfect daydream.

The symbol-lion wrote god’s name in green invisible whiskers. A certain clown face cloaked in starlight followed the poems into the Streets of Gehenna. It was as if She was her own mother giving birth to endless variations on a theme.

In her abdomen,the Universe howled; axioms of lust curled like Einstein’s frontal cortex into the exponential time deep in the belly of empty American street turning wild

with the madness of the master – slave power struggle.

her Eyes winked in hot shrieks of knotted fibonacci. Like time bombs and seeds, the eyelids of Heaven were opened by gold digging Priests whose faces remained invisible only until the moment of death.

It was then. It was that. That was why.

Her life was evolution’s non sequitur.

A white Bicycle floated under illuminations of interstellar Necrophilia;
a trillion corpses igniting in the bioluminescence of death.
her heart burst into God’s own Godlike heart, billowing in eldritch Minkowski subspace of a white cloud becoming the mirror image of God. Claws and feathers bathed her flesh in the dark blood and saliva of heaven.

Her bones wrapped themselves around a mustard seed.

God self organized into the chrome and shadows of a funeral hearse. Together he and her Bride, in androgynous languages of perfect motion, moved through the Las Vegas mirage of the mirror image of her conscious despair.

A crown of recombinant sparrows boiled in billboards of foreshadowing on the cold prism of the street of a million tattooed foreheads. The pantheon of heaven licked it’s wounds like an injured ion.

The stars chant diabolic, champion fires of first echoes, opening and closing around her heart. Thunderbird talons clutch time blackened dream Queens.

Feathers began whispering the poetry of Aldebaraan nested in an impermanent infinite regress; until? Until toward the Tower of Insanity,

two travelers trampled the vintage of the celestial vine.

The field was hung damp and heavy like Picasso’s testicles brimming over with optical illusions.
Night after night, the Universe fled from itself in rorschacks of daisy dust supernova.
The broken mirror of God’s face was reflected in the eyes of her newborn soul.

Like Socrates in the Temple, a strange man appeared; anointed a Taoist in Stochastic loudness, lost in the glassed desert of goldness.

Rumours, and rumours of rumours course through the Shinto supercomputer of his spine.

Central nervous systems exploded like her taste buds. In the fractal architectures of 2:23 o’clock,

an old woman is weeping mysterious pools of crystalline shekinah.

The algebraic imperfection of a white wing ripples into a black halo swirling around a gorillas fist.

Her heart broke open towards the sky and She died a million times, each upon resurrection of the Infinite version of a finite Christ.

The end of time resolved into punctuation marks buried on the edge of her skin. A moment of the Falsifiable God began exploring it’s own face in the black and green mirror of the primeval dawn.

the bottom line? A single God began blooming through information spheres of all sentient beings in the endless harmony of the first hallucinatory breath.

rhodopsins of dark golden lycanthrope skin quavered in strange portraits that painted themselves alive in the sky.
Her skin began separating, channeling itself into naked rivers of disintegration.
A myriad of gypsies glimpsed themselves in the Vernal Equinox of Nocturnal Undulations.

Under hyacinth canopies, her flesh swelled in echoes of a deep listening, ears born for the Moment of her own birth. It arrived in hieroglyphics of a cat-souled maelstrom.

As she turned, her mouth began exhaling the green light of dawn.
Seperation. Isolation. Disintegration. It was her trinity of despair.

In perfect response, the city erupted in a blood rose of paranoia. A dark magic marked daggers of green thrushing neurochemical Excitations in monsoons of monstrous knowledge.

And her soul? Began glimmering, like a trillion dying stars bathed in the geometrical pulse of Our Lady of Perpetual Perception.

It was then, the Dragon of Lao Tzu’s toothless smile materialized in the laser beam of emerald grass deep in the photon pregnant nightmare of Gods face trapped on Channel 99.

The last grain of rice laughed her holiest insanity alive. The Dragons of Heaven swept sleeping into the Chinese ideogram tattooed on her skin.

Ludwig Wittgenstein, shrouded in spider silk, begins barking the Devil’s prayer at Lon Cheney in the Hollywood moonlight. A stoplight implodes in the trapped gas of Dawn.

Blueness boils the Prophet’s hydrogen eyes in rhomboid shadows.

The eternal mother traps the Dog God of Godot in the face of a tarot card weeping with lovestruck gloom.

She spins. Isocahedrons unite. A sphere is born.

In the room of inverted masquerades, a tribe of Ouija boards whispers to trilobytes bursting from the pores of her skin.

She becomes Godlike in a naked meadow; she flocks through gargantuan patterns into number lines too naked to see.

The polarity of human consciousness is instantaneously reversed. Ten trillion Stars of David rotate in myriad articulations of light burnt earlobes wrinkled by dark elephantine sorrow.

The Universe weeps the rage of unborn photons. None of the madmen know how to stop laughing.

She looks to the vanishing point of her own face in the mirror.

A tribe of Quarks selects the Game Show of her Perfection Paradoxed. She plucks the dragon’s eye from the subterranean root and conspires to produce Archangel Gabriel’s dream in a gorillas face deep in the scarlet charged basin of the strange attractor coming to life in the trapezoidal lust of the jeweled flesh of love’s bleeding Congo.

Lost in the lightning of a disembodied magic, Lao Tzu leaps onto the stage in orchids of taoist coincidence.

The theatre of tall grass is full of drunken and distorted pulses, balanced like butterflies in the particle zoo of her skin.

Dragons ignite on elf tongues in ruby candlewicks of hypnotic thought brine.

Degree by degree the moon undresses The Ballerina’s soul as pallid Ophelia tap dances on Tahitian Mood sands.

The dream inside the seashell laughs. Moonlight of an astral lattice spirals in clandestine palindromes of incandescent blasphemy.

A blood thirsty diamond of a time-binding messiah’s heart hangs in the white hot balance of impermanence and perfect damnation.

Jesus Christ whispers a blue scarlet rumor to Mary Magdalene, whose heart is drifting on canyons of mystery in the rose of the wild red void.

Human heartbeats swarm on purple winds charged with the flame from her ancient moonlit shoes. The magical realists churned like holy echoes in the mitochondria of the Devil-Queen.

From deep inside her body, an ancient dragon anoints it’s forbidden dream in grasshoppers swallowing astronaut tears. Lao Tzu whispers

the square root of negative one to a newborn angel shrouded in absolute wonder.

White hot silence dances in dead faced doorways broken by tangerine angles in an uncertain paradigm shift of the Extraterrerestrial Genesis, in which

a swastika swirls like Buddha’s footprint. Unbelievable imaginations coalesce in the eyes of passing whirlinds. Dolphins leap through African firestorms.

The pantheon of humanity erupts in the palette of the folds of her fiery dirt breathing flesh.

She is dead. She is dying. She is born again, and again, an infinite number of times.

She slips like a knife into the rainforest of her heart.

She is deader than dead, because she knows she is alive. The Tomb of Lao Tzu echoes

with the pantomime of her fantasy shrieking with the desire of God.

The television awakes. The machine face is watching everything now.

A cold voice boils in the undying Diabolic Asylum of Unforgettable Mystery.

The news anchor’s face is contorted into a deep twitching spasm. His eyes are like bruised turbojet assholes shining against the camera lights in apoplectic rage.

On the highway, a bird shaped UFO has died into a pool of mechanical pyramids.

Harmonies of mock delusion vibrate the city into ribbons of heat seeking culture.

Her flesh quavers in columns of algorithmic ligaments mocked, neologos andante.

In the twitching of an eye, the clockworks hums like the Book of Ezekiel writing itself in whirlwinds of the self replicating Tetragammatron.

Something pulls her newborn corpse deeper into the alleyway where the Metatron sits puzzled by the nightmare of absolute nothingness.

God was lonely, she says. So it created me to give birth to the living paradox.

The Nihilistic Assassin of Christ’s Serpentine Thanatos has lured her DNA into the labyrinth of perpetual resurrection.

Sunlight slips through hangman’s eyes and a pearl of red lipstick boils in the Golgotha sky.

She is diseased, like the Ghost of Christopher Columbus chasing prostitutes through windstorms of endless imperfection.

In the archeon of reality, her dead Father’s face is racing through fields of dandelions that whisper the language of mystery poems buried in the soil of Lao Tzu’s endlessness becoming endlessness

Her skin shivers with transcendental glory into the filament and trembling tendrils of a liquid green rainforest vine that has learned to suck the life from vampire beetles in the Abyss of the rain.

The power of suggestion. Go there. Go down like Moses. She cries, Mary Magdalene’s eyelashes fluttering in Van Goghs’ sky.

Her skin, her melody, her symbols, her resurrection has brought her embryo into the mythological jetstream above the Shadow of

Jerusalem. Greek sailors wail like blue eyed crocodiles, lost in pyramids of hypnosis

for her. She dresses the night in jewels of unstoppable holiness.

Platonic pathologies erupt in the great lie of Socrates Imaginary Death.

A mysterious society forms on this Ocean floor. She breeds a baby faced Hanged Man who teaches the moon how to weep Italian minnows.

A choir of Cosmonauts are buried in the Marianas trench; they rise in bubbles of cold steel tempered by the dreams of desert dwelling dolphins.

Each moment, the earth ripples into Easter as a Bermuda triangle hovers above a Miami pawn shop. Without warning, Lao Tzu gives a Warning.

Indigo children skateboard like fairy tale fireflies into the Labyrinth of Ten Trillion Wild Guesses.

Nobody is crying anymore. The night is a lunar lightbeam coated in periwinkle caterpillar semen.

The labyrinthine alleyway glows like a vagabonds esophagus. Her father becomes some Yahweh colored storm cloud.

Abstract Schizophrenia the Philosophers call it, she says.

Wine flavored laughter burns her eyes into a catalogue of thieves memories.

Her skull is a casino of polyps burning with sonatas of connectionist theorems.

Moment by moment, the Universe buries a mustard seed in the section of her brain reserved for Lao Tzu’s begging bowl.

She enters the room like Nijinsky; contorted by optical illusions designed by angels with Infinite IQ’s.

An interference pattern glows on Buddha’s larynx down in the howling coils of Lucifer’s genetic ourobouros.

Her tongue ignites. A single symbol; the manifesto of God’s love.

A white whisper gallops through the primitive gossip of star flung neanderthals balanced on dandelion wings.

inverted supernovae boil the roses of hell in Lao Tzu’s mother’s wicked corkscrew heart.

A tiny yellow bloom exhales it’s name into the sweeping ocean of the void.

Sing me alive, she says, trapped in the cage of calculated catharsis.

Galaxies purge the world into shapeshifting scars around the event horizons of her wounded self.

She runs her hand through the jaundiced shadow of her napalm soaked hair.

A thousand light years away a single thought races toward the windowpane of her dying Grandmother’s spidery eyes.

Interconnectedness is the deepest law of heaven.

The angels fall in broken law. The gravity of time bent the Archangel’s smile.

The forest shrieks in the gamma rays of Purgatory.

In that moment, she aligned herself with the stars of the Swan.

She gives birth to an orphan who has escaped into the starlight of the Australian dreamtime.

The child becomes a Catalonian prophet with a mouth painted in Seaweed.

The baby steps down from Infinities steeple and begins chanting the nine billion names of unborn magicians.

Hummingbird tears rain down in hallucinatory orgasms.

the human heart glows in an abscess of incomplete knowledge and mathematical axioms.

Chess games erupt in bloody shadows on sidewalks roiling in digital teardrops.

Every human eye bubbles with psychedelic paranoia and the lust of dolphin queens haunting Dead Sea sand castles.

Grasshoppers invade the Pentagon. Tornados boil in gypsy hearts.

Moscow is raped by the Tunguska void.

Manhattan is a clock trapped in King Kong’s daydream.

On the hour; the face of Quetzlcoatl rotates toward heaven in trillions of living rooms frozen in non linear skeletons scattered through the Universe.

Cartoons glow like triple faced Worm Queens. Furious fairy tale mathematicians are escorted by the Knights Templar into the stained glass of St. Patrick’s cathedral.

The Grand Canyon winks at the moon, spilling
tar blackened rodents into the night sky.

The woman and her Catalonian Prophet child slip like thieves into the belly of a wandering sunbeam.

Earth tilts on it’s spiritual axis; the magnetism of death throws an antelope into a lion’s mouth.

Black holes dance like Grandfathers of the Pop Apocalyptic Calypso. Hierarchies of control break down in spasms of punctuated equilibrium.

The sky foams eerily in a wild gambol of psychedelic circus tents full of curious animals.

Carnival glass dripping with werewolf eyes.

The sweeping curl of God infinity vanity hovers in the beginningless essence of an atom the shape of a sidewalk deep in Harlem.

It has never been like this before. Her mouth is a laughter factory exploding with verbs of transcendental sadness.

Ammonia drips from her sacred tongue. A lizard hunts cherub dragons in the purple swells of her ever expanding bellybutton.

She has become the cosmological rage of balanced in the nerve clusters of Minerva.

Imaginary numbers bathe in winged corpses of her prophecies.

Wave after wave, her Goddess’ womb is tattooed in ghastly Empyrean fires of broken memories. An unending crest of complex equations anoints itself in the fire of her sex fueled despair.

Over and over, clouds like fish eyes mount her swollen flesh with flames of the Emerald Hell’s ultimate desire.

Three variables of the divine hallucination surrender to their souls as spies for God.

Broken teacups hover above the Seattle skyline.

It rains communion wine.

God’s face ignites in a hallowed ballet of living symbols. White noise bathes pink dolphins in a splash of sudden blue torpor.

She becomes the universe cradling life in a spectrum of unfinished reality;

xylophones unite in Mixolodian treble. The molecules of her heart gallop like Lady Godiva,

lost in the calculus of human suffering.

Virgin laughter reverses the polarity of her imagination.

The unchangeable past becomes the unstoppable future.

Here and now is everywhere; neutrino orchestras sweep through the void in choreographed hurricanes of unbroken symmetry.

The spiritual vine dips it’s soul into Brazilian flood soil.

The White witch inverts the severed head of God deep in the mirror of a sparrow’s heart.

A dying planet exchanges wedding vows with it’s own history in a moment of transcendental gravity.

Again and again, she turns her spirit inside out. Her body falls into God’s broken television.

And so it was. Her abdomen is rich like the Mississipi Delta.

Sephiroth and other vagabond angels exchange wedding vows in the heart of a Virgin.

Her left nipple erupts in a cascade of Persian dew.

Quasi-sentient scarabs migrate from the belly of the Boolean underworld across a field of Aeolian zephyrs laced in the dew of differential equations.

hell reverberates in opera paused on a dead fisherman’s mouth.

A single beam of light paints God’s fascination in the neurons of Shakespeare’s lost canary.

Heaven and hell bifurcate into meaningless rumors. Monsoons of maya rain through the flesh of beggars.

Squares collapse into circles of time binding fractals. Photons exhale legends of Cuneiform proteins that have drowned in human blood

. Down in the dark recesses of the material labyrinth,

Minkowski space bubbles in a convergence point of all parallel lines. The starlight pours from her open wounds. A heart,

bathed in voodoo, is pulsing with the specter of the Priestess’ shame.

She licks her own wounded chasm with a forked tongue framed

in silence and fire. Capillaries explode in the shadows of a passing Archangel.

The rainbow swells the world’s heart into Sistine Chapels of Anonymity.

Quarks of shinto memory ignite the Village of God with strange winds that open the human heart into encyclopedias full of dead men’s gossip.

Christ dances with a trillion Bodhisattvas in the ballet of perfect faith.

Krishna’s eyes descend like UFO’s
into a waterfall suspended in the void.

A fly balances it’s ego on the Chandrasekhar limit.

Mitochondria spontaneously combust in a dark room haunted by time traveling enzymes.

A stone golem born on Alpha Centauri sings it’s name to the Sphinx . A thousand questions

billow in the eyes of the suddenly dead. Diamonds of memory vibrate in ecosystems of purgatorial jazz. God lifts the veil on post molecular worlds,

hovering in silent permutations of perpetual motion, balanced in the still point of space and time on zeniths of incalculable beauty.

A cat’s whisper floats through synagogues full of slapstick and caskets of silence. The universe assumes the shape of an ordinary freckle.

A spider arrives in a black tuxedo. The spider and the freckle invite each other to die ad infinitum.

Heaven’s sadness explodes in the mythological scent of honeybees. The forest shivers in the phantom filigree of raven’s laughter.

Human lips become contagious, seething in Christian jetstreams through the stained glass of eternity.

Life is a dream of magic magnified by the fear of creation.

Sapphires boil in post-erotic limbo. Her abdomen writhes along the seashore, seabirds diving into her flesh

in strange patterns of coincidence. The stratosphere glows in supernatural iridescence, electromagnetic love poems burning with punctuation

forged in some Greek God’s spleen. The moon balances it’s shadow on a chameleon’s tail.

Eyelids drop on theatres of synchronicity. The ocean hisses a Pharoah’s eulogy. Rubies curve on gossamer tangents around nests of bow colored birds basking in shekinah bluer than blue green algae.

Information swirls in swastika ballads of impermanent midnight; ancient patterns of information riddle space and time with a rubicon of shapeshifting hieroglyphics.

The caterpillar faced angel thunders like Sisyphus into broken world.

And in this hour, the truth engine of civilization burns the shadow of man into architectures of conformity.

Dimensions twist on the ourobouros of a magicians’ eye. Ecstasy babbles on the teeth of clowns.

Moment by moment, the Universe trembles with forgotten variables of wisdom. A golden eyed salamander trips on philosopher’s feet down cobblestone streets the color of Nietzsche’s tongue.

Sentient beings explain the meaning of absolute nothingness to the a priori nobody. A tarantula crawls through the desert of a Saint’s imagination.

The Queen of the Existence Hive dies inside a Castle of Magician’s bones. Wine hides in dirigibles of poet’s eyes. The poet, grown from seeds buried

deep in the ether of mankind’s delusion, slices open his chest, throwing his still beating human heart deep into a bonfire lit by the dreams of burning wood. Freedom hides in the time bending shadow of a Luciferian smile,

coded in the slow pursuit of shadows across a sundial in a park near a city populated by lycanthropic jewel thieves.

History pivots on the edge of a geranium’s petals. A funeral hearse is powered by the blood of priests.

Under the portents of the echoing maelstroms of the Genie faced desert, the sand seduces the human imagination from the flesh of Bedouin nomads.

The desert grows wild with inviolably weird happenstance. Camels eyes escape into maelstroms of entropy hidden in the night sky. The Genie bathes in a rumor of alchemist fears. The laughter of the Oasis cleaves the Human Genome into a time binding fractal in a billion dimensions.

A radiant sun explains the last riddle to the Nomads; it makes no sense.

The answer is an infinite silence. The paradox that is no paradox; it is the only paradox that actually is a paradox.

The souls of the Bedouin Nomads ignite in immortality; their probability clouds billow like circus tents.

Inside the Imaginary Pyramid, a million acrobats– vultures with the eyes of Egyptian Pharoahs — bacteria lighting phosphorescent diseases; decaying membrane potentials trembling with the denouement of eternity.

The Genie pivots on an electron, rising like an omniscient kaleidoscope of human desire and wisdom.


DUst motes howl in the eyes of desert scarabs. The Genie, surging with a phosphorescent flame is a tongue bathing itself in a clear blue sky,

igniting the wisdom of heaven

in the feet of fire ants.

The Genie; a strange laughter that bubbles up from the long distant, the long dead,

clock faced vortex of Time. A canary vocal carried on chiraco.

Somehow, in a single instant, the Nomad realizes he is no longer on the planet Earth. No longer even in the desert; no longer in his own skin.

No longer is he even alive. He has in fact, become an idea. The ghost in the machine.

In the nomadic brain, the transformation of a Human Being into an Idea — it is a myth, a transubstantiating ecstasy of mythologies.

But in that instant, the Nomad’s consciousness becomes a series of electromagnetic signals that pierce the veil of the Genie’s being.

Nothing stays the same. The field of being is a unity. The camels eye is a fire ant exchanging wedding vows with a scarab, the scarabs dream is the negative image of the memory of the Pharoah.

But this is the irrational impulse. The truth of the unsustainability of this

state is legendary.

A camel surrenders it’s gaping mouth to the starlight.

So sings the martyr of a tachyon blush, calling the Gods backwards through time, dying in the eyes of needles, disappearing like the color green into a parallelogram burning on the forest floor.

Kali Yuga night, the ten trillion machinations of butterfly neurons, slurping phantom gamma rays from the shadow of the sun. The Taoist hermaphrodite, a Siamese twin — male face pointed into the negative image of love, female face transcending the geometry of heaven in curls and wisps of hysteria and ghostlike embers of Eden’s slow fire. Meat drenched menstruations boil through the veins of ferns in a calculus prepared in the

Alchemist’s spine. Wisdom of heaven transubstantiates into meaningless rumors through the cadillac colored eyes of a fly.

Uncertainty becomes a cascade of supernatural omens that leave the human soul balanced on two waves, the alpha and the omega.

Two trees rise from the ocean floor, stretching their green mouths into heaven.

The Alpha, the Omega. Cross pollination of the void.

Growing in celestial soil, the Grandfather faced serpent of elms hangs like starlight in the dream of the amino acid. Grandmother Sequoia transcends her march towards the hot face of heaven. Flesh and dream interpolate in a strange tangle of nerves, neurons writing the fool’s algebra in dust on tarantula wings.

A googolplex of thought screaming scintilla rotates on the nerves of a brachiating time orchid.

The woman’s soul is a curtain of uncertainty. She tap dances, drifting through the Alleyway on death’s shoes, balanced in the parabolic curve of beauty.

The night of certainty paints itself in the wicked paradox of holy ouroubouros. You are neither living nor dead. She begins in an indeterminate stance; her body curling in thought around the light beams of the beginning of time.

Magic and fascism, words like neutron bombs, each a version of the warring nightmares that burn with ghastly fear of desire; in walls and shadow, they turn the spirit against the spirit, thermodynamic systems migrating along curves not made for human comprehension.

Flesh echoes comitragedies of flesh. The living mirror is a deep well of sacred geometry mirrored in the white hot salt on the surface of the Sea of Poetic Metaphor.

Every city is a bed of afterthought invested with the mirror image of dead men’s consciousness. In the celebration of the unreal, art performs miracles of surrealism as beauty drips from a dead man’s skull. br>

The laws of geometry and consequence in the Universe no longer apply. God is free from God. In the painter’s eye, infinity exudes vast fibrillations of celestial tangents roiling with the love of the human eye.

Shakespeare’s imagination runs amok through rainforests populated by blind moles burying their dreams in fields of yellow mandrake.

The white beard of wisdom appears in water beards of the honeybee hive of a blue bee hive of the April sky.

Fingertips pause on the edge of a a fleshy anvil — tiny inhuman feet are trapped in mechanical toe shoes. God eyes the lizards musculature as it

trembles with the power of suggestion. The magicians outside of time have forged the incantations of the infernal

bridegroom from DNA composed by a Priests’ lie. Sequences of energy sprout like polka dots on a breakfast table.

The heart of the lie, the language of the Manichean war — boiling on the tongue like altocumulus falling into the sea; burning it’s way into

the civilization in wild unforgivable hues.

And in this spirit darkened trance of organ and nerve,

flesh blushing in triangles and exotic perfumes, pheremones trickling through the pores of turtle prayers on their

way through gargantuan limbos— the last memory of humanity hovers in transcendental gedanken, uncontrollably

changing in changeling permutations of impermanence best remembered as evolutionary revolutions. And in this magic jungle, as time expands in the

leopard spots shapeshifting in the glitter drunk sky, a prismatic array of incomprehensible languages burn

with a thousand names the wind has never been able to pronounce.

Woosh, whir, whiz, the mythological language of sunflowers, the argument that played in the filaments of Mozart’s hindbrain;

She becomes the proof of the proof of the ungoverned majesty of a God that has no answers. Endless questions ignited

in the soil of the deathless imagination. Turning in the candlelight, the leviathan gives birth to topological manifestoes of gravity and

existential heartache. Krypton quavers in Aphrodite’s earlobes. Cherubic eyes glower superstitious under the signals from

the machine faced angel of time. Lightning etches the tetragammatron in a coal miner’s heart; the antichrist lifts a leaf

from the mouth of a jester. Cruel suns, trapped in forbidden orbits, turning vacant with each passing symphony of fission,

assemble around the gaping wound of my Father’s skull. An clockwork of canary bones shimmers in the moonlight. The phantom audience

elopes into the darkness of a deep anarchy that neither begins nor ends, but sweeps through the neurons of the Messiah

like wild honey through an owl’s eyes. Light tattoos the human heart in curious beads of living hieroglyphics.

Abracadabra. Alakazam. Shangri la, selah, the secret eyes of the mysterious choir of atoms ignite in songs of torpor and fury. Point to point, the

puzzle erupts into a schism of magical divide. Numbers pause in the evolution void. Hieronymous Bosch spirals

underclouds of eyeshadow dripping from the cartoon of Salome’s mouth. Non trivial data nests itself in roots of exponential change.

The baudrillardist simulacra organize anemone daydreams deep on the ocean floor. Sea urchins slam shut like Japanese eyelids.

Replicant mimes clone the memory of prophets. The sound of the moaning of man, each syllable hot as chocolate thunder,

each negative shadow exploding in saxophones of bone and marrow and syntax charged with Jehovah’s laughter— each paragraph

of consciousness glowing in heliotropic psychedelia in a dream fucked mind fuck of some unbelievable heaven born

in electrons that do not even exist.

And for ten thousand centuries, the unspeakable poem alters the flesh of the mammalian choir, exquisite clairvoyant overtures

hidden deep in the freckles of the newborn baby.

Elemental melodies, the soup of God’s deep begging, stir in cauldrons of magical iridium flood tides.

A bowl of emptiness balances
on a holy man’s head. A peacock feather slips into the heart of a Nun. Non linear love songs billow through the garden

of time, stirring the mammalian heart with portents of the descent into Underworlds of coincidental silence.

Hypnotized flesh commingles with rusted nails and basilisk souls. A lion contemplates the Lord prayer.

The electron field swells into a Saint fist clutching an umbrella in an eyebrow of sugar soaked monsoons.

The Queen of Unasked questions churns her chariot on the galloping heartbeat of yesterdays unfinished breaths.

The laughter of sadness, trilling in blue notes augmented by tropical hums, stirs the human brain into a minuet

of electromagnetic bewilderment, leaving the ghost of her love to drown in the absence of mystery.

Algorithms of insanity struggle on the empirical shore. Two anonymous beings unite like flowers of unholy dissonance,

each vibrating howl of their undying majesty recombining in a moment of transcendental fiction.

Love screams primordal sexual heresies.

Green whispers strange purple in the white gold of a neverending yellow.

The palm of the rose is pierced with diabolic stigmata. Cherub’s mouths open into the

cavernous ecosystems of Hell. Pollens drift on Leonardo da Vinci’s halitosis.

Life paints by numbers on canvasses of immaculate probability. Flames transform the star gravid ovaries

into world lines thick with human skin that surrender their empty form to the madness of Zen.

Languages migrate like epileptic birds.

Patterns of infinity scrawl skeletal manifestos in the skull gathering dawn. True opposites are

reconciled. The book of the angels is laced like God’s tongue on the skin of dream soaked lilies.

The ten thousand Pantheons of heaven erupt in delirious caprice. Circles circle circles of circles. Smoky dark ether haunted

by clown making apples recoils in the codex fog of mystical Persia. A cemetery of thieves is disturbing the ghost gravity of the Bermuda triangle.

Eldritch magic churns in the crucible of heat seeking strawberries. Eyeballs are born where the rope

of Judas suicidal daydream multiplies into the nightmare of an undefinable hell. A polyphonous hum of oxygen dipped

canary wings swindles the sky into devil breath and thunder

that reminds the world of the first actual glimpse of a human eye. Rainbows sprout in the devil’s bellybutton.

Waves of supernatural asceticism warp the corporeal threshold of civilizations slow plunge into the

theatre of the dadaist absurdity. A giant tongue swooshes through the circus tents of Hell. The acrobats of heaven,

bred in the sweet defiance of Ezekiel’s last living word, descend in slow motion into the dust on the living room floor.

The black portrait of eternity quivers like a membrane of Charlie Chaplin shadow. Mary Magdalene stalks Christ’s pantheist soul through jungles of pure synchronicity. The jungle eats itself with the green tongue of a sexual cannibal. A city burns it way into your heart.

At the edge of this city, a rainbow rubicon a single photon wide circles the tent of gypsies as they sleep.

As the baby of the Sun and the Earth crawls through the night sky, the Infant Primadonna gives birth to a thousand madmen

in the bottom of a wishing well that is as jaded by death as witches womb is blessed with frog tears. At the bottom of the well, which is symbolic of the end of time,

the walrus faced darkness blooms into apocalyptic nursery rhymes.

And the moral to the story is? There are no morals to the story.

She begs the grafitti nightmare of heaven from the stigmata of Unborn Saints. Lucifer rearranges particles of the void in a perpetuals orgasm of light.

It is raining pennies and minnows; fish faced, the clouds are trampolines of Greek mystery rites; spiraling into the stratosphere from Promethean nostrils, the troposphere swirls in iridescent swells of human soul.

The Schizoid ear, searching for the Amphibian Grail, the Chalice Prison of spiritual heresies — sucks the name of God from the Void.

It is Halloween in the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo’s paintbrush has escaped low earth orbit and is circling a cloud faced bishop in imitatio of certain Amazonian songbirds.

In sweeping strokes of chemical fury, as if Peyote was surging on a shaman’s eyelids, the air around the Sistine Chapel ignites in a rainbow cruciform of time traveling halos.

A parabolic membrane as sensitive as Eve nipple skin spins around the neck of a honey and ambrosia eyed hallucination balanced just between the last atom of the Bishop’s eyelid and the parabolic syzygy of the knowable Universe.

A black swan slips through a golden wedding ring; wings flutter like the bride’s ego in the moment of transcendental doubt.

And in the heavy sweet ethereal sickness of a series of pregnancies that are timed to bring the collective ego

into a frothy madness of spiritual crescendoes, the woman with nine ovaries sprouts an embryo the shape of an isocahedron.

The mouth of the isocahedron opens into a stargate. A single syllable slips down through the embryos’ throat, igniting the

Universal womb with the promise of a trillion unforgettable futures. Inexplicably, the embryo slips into a perfect anonymity

as if God itself had disguised the universe as a clown’s mouth. The city burns with the pulse of a million hearts. In the middle

of the night, at a single moment, the pulses of the City synchronize. A forbidden cascade of human dreams unite. Frogs burp hallelujah, hallelujah, hahahahaha, hahahaha, halleluja, in the suburbs.

The events of the day begin to manifest from the fractal essence of the deep unconscious unity of perfect unrecognizable holy love.

A Chinese peasant flicks a light switch and the American dawn explodes in fireworks of sacred autopoetic


The Catalonian prophet slips into an oysters flesh; the ocean grows disturbingly real.

It is as unfathomable as the moment during Hamlet when a certain audience, hypnotized by the Ophelia’s shadow, slipped out of their seats and onto the stage, and one by one, a thousand strangers balanced in the silvery light as if Errol Flynn’s holy spirit had become tangled in Mae West’s imagination.

It was then that the theatre transformed into a mime’s tastebuds. Silence filtered the truth as a Church filtered the obscenity of orphans. A dictionary of forgotten words, once thought long

extinct, the language of hemlock and the full moon, the scalding tongue of angels born inside pinecones, leap towards each other in symphonies of unrepeatable syllables.

The abstract woman hums a robot gurgle.

Her voice is a puzzle of meaninglessness. Her flesh reverberates with the sound of something naming itself ten years after it has died.

She begins to question the way light strikes the skin. There are holes in her eyes that lead to the ends of the Universe.

She remembers a moment when her lungs zig zagged in a scald of heretical coincidence.

Every breath was an iridescent fantasy burning mandalas of cause and effect into the event horizon of her summery butter colored skin.

Her face is unlocked, like a door that was painted shut by a black market magician. True love bloomed, in blue moods of loveless lunacy in the lagoon of her love’s labia.

Genius erupts in a trillion volts of Vedic consciousness. As the joke and lie commingle in the subspace of her neurons, her lips sizzle like beef in a slaughterhouse.

Nothing is permanent. Not even impermanence.

All around her, the streets are glowing with policemen’s eyes shining like branding irons burning with decimal points and question marks.

A disconsolate humanity mirrors the chasm of the material world with it’s own daredevil fantasies.

Drifter’s faces are scarred by historical lightning strikes. Wild dice froth down Peacock Alley. Gangster eyelids are tattooed with dollar signs.

Dragons of memory scream in holographic fog turned insane with the flesh of pigeons fluttering through clouds of carbon monoxide. The world snickers.

It is the tango of mutually assured disaster.

Screams of discarded souls spill in pools of cast iron semen.

Listen closely; here in the Western dystopia, the cosmos is distilled into jack o lanterns glowing on subways of real human suffering.

Celestial watering holes rain down with Zebra piss from gossamer skies deadened by the breath of Sinners lost in transcendental meditation.

The crocodile sleeps in the Invisible Temple of Isis. The goddess skin erupts in a field of green and golden thought herpes.

Alien Goddesses twist human flesh from the hoofprints of braying donkeys. Jewelry appears on the streets in tornadoes

of desperate foreshadowing. The visions of the ordinary man ignite in perilous antipathy into shattered glass and hit men’s bullets that stream into the sky like the tears of Adolf Hitler in World War One.

Every orphan is witness to God’s madness. Every infant is indelibly scarred by the presence of an unknown shadow at the moment of it’s birth.

The wise men have escaped into parallels of logic and ecstasy. The night sky is coated with the probability fields of Eternal Judgment. Purple mouths devour charcoal roses.

The eyes of the dream sequence are occulted by mathematical mythologies.

Moonlight sheds the scent of a turquoise grapefruit, seething through the sky, dropping silver angels teeth onto cobblestone streets. At dawn, Queens and Kings step

down from the Towers of the chess board and sweep them clean while recanting the soliloquys of their own eternal madness.

A blue fedora hovers in broken tangerine shadows above Commerce Street. A strand of human hair slips through the evening sky, slinking above the street

like a whore’s negligee. Passersby avoid my gaze. Nobody is certain where the Priests have gone. A jaded sense

of untranslatable weirdness permeates each footstep. In the corners of my eyes, I see traces of extraordinary light that burst the

room into jigsaw puzzles of heat death and symbolism.

A lock of hair bubbles up from a crack in the sidewalk. A pit bull anoints the world with drool from it’s machine forged mandibles.

Tell me your real name, the eyes of the world implore. Who are you, racing through my soul?

Columns of moonlight balance on the edge of a Supermodel’s skull. Spiderwebs cloak the world in deathly dew as

a world painted in negative monotones by Priests with no emotion unfurls pink flags full of diseased memories, leaving the carcasses of Nuns to die like party balloons

in a world of Absolute Revelation.

As the sun sets in a series of forbidden ecstasies, rings of gold shimmy into his girlfriends candlewick eyelashes.

The boy and the girl swallow each other’s saliva under a sky shaded in chiaroscuro scarecrows of the great googolplex underworld.

Somewhere, a volcano is singing the Lover love story into the heart of a rainforest. It is the languor of extra terrestriality; the dark sensation

of being everywhere at once; nowhere really, but yet, everywhere. It is the unpredictability of the divine madness. The magic

of the Sephiroth fluttering from cell to cell in the human belly. She is Europe, Asia, Africa; Gondwanaland bathed in radioactive luminescence.

America reminds him of his frozen heart. The footsteps of fairies plants runes on the Liar tongue.

Creation oozes from the pores of her electrode spiked skin. Micro- gazelles leap through her blood stream.

The sphinx glows with subatomic kundalini in the subspace between the field of consciousness and the void. Electromagnetic frequencies trip the dandelion

fever of their love story, which will never end, never begin, doesn’t even exist. A meteor of fuzzy logic lemurs shoots through the white page of their inevitable tragedy.

Thunderbolts cascade through their jewel flavored abdomens. Their eyes glow in serpentine venom and the wisdom of the book of Genesis.

The earth is cooked into an orgasmic heat death.

She brings the Green flame to rest on her child’s spinal column. Rivers of salvation course towards the poet’s gravestones.

In that instant, the glance of immortality passes from one eye to the other. It is the fascination of the Alpha and the Omega;

roots of oak trees plunging into antelope ovaries, a cloud exhaling the glass face of a wooden skyscraper. A thousand recursive moments deep in her bloodstained heart,

the teardrops of a snow leopard are falling in Monsoons of imaginary scripture into the dream of McLeod Ganj, poised somewhere

in the Dalai Lama’s first moment of unending clarity.

The creature with a trillion filaments exploding in her uterus begins to paint her toenails in golden green thought apples.

Moment by moment, their mammalian navels ignite with the mirror image of the void. Imperfection races toward them at the speed of a million minuets

a minute. The faces of the resurrection flood their union in day glow fossils. The fool’s skin blooms with fantasies of the Apocalypse.

It is unexpected. It is the life of the undying dead. The memory of forgotten moments balanced on a fulcrum of complete and total

impossibility. The Grandfather Paradox unleashes a psychedelic nerve gas in Andy Warhol’s spleen. A child’s voice washed in Einstein’s light whitened eyebrows bristles with the magic of hedgehogs.

Marilyn Monroe goes skinny dipping with a tribe of werewolves under a bridge suspended against a pomegranate colored sky. Lou Reed walks by with a tribe of

laughing androids. The earth bleeds a maniacal language of ventriloquists whose eyes have been calibrated by black magicians.

She melts into herself; wordlessly her freckles bloom like Salvador Dali’s measles. Each point in space and time converts the energy of the next

point into complete undying mystery. Thermodynamic power trips; the sensation of being eaten alive by termites with the mouths of philosopher kings.

A boomerang flies in a sky haunted by divine paranoia. The tock in the sky clocks never. Mozart’s magic flute launches the world into a symphony of paranoia and hypnosis.

The sleeping nightmare of oriental flashbulbs strikes the eye like a fist full of schizophrenic hammers in the Garden of Eden. A serpent faced child falls off a deep blue crucifix. Logic

paralyzes the world into unbearable syllogisms. The dream of timeless death wishes spills from the pores on her skin. Multidimensional poetries

surround the city with fists of guilt and the melodies of winking eyelids blackened by the steamhammers of doubt.

A trail of blood sizzles on the sidewalk; light spins a web toward the City that does not Yet Exist. Soul by soul, the probability field

chooses the masquerade of free will. Yahweh arrives in clown face on a unicycle. The Congo bounces through heaven with a twitch of the Voodoo Priestess’ smile. A series of complex equations flutter above the skyline like birds without wings. Fractions gasp on the mathematicians fingertips.

Variables sweep like rock stars through the Phrygian logos, blowing monsoons of Hindu gossip

onto the Summit of Mount Everest. The first fractal slips through a nest of pinecones. The Fibonacci sequence anoints a serpent of kundalini with the honeycomb

flame of the black widow heavenly amnesia.. Her feet slip into a fractal lagoon as if they have been stitched by grasshoppers carved from pure disbelief.

The night turns translucent, as if the Prophets of the dreamtime have spiraled through the jewel studded dawn in engine-temples of Unbearable Solitude. The veins on the Priest arms sparkle like seams of golden serpent in a deserted mineshaft.

Pink flamingos nest in the dead man’s nostrils. Trapped in this war between geometric fantasies, the Cameras of the Last Movie peer through human skin

into the soul of God’s endless hunting of itself. Strange colors without any known names circle the eyes of the Magician in uncertain rhymes.

Deeper still, in a regression of miracles, the Chapel of Infinite Peril stirs with the laughter of undead forest animals. Gears and electrodes

disguised as whiskers and ligaments swivel and pivot in the heart of the machinery of love. A congress of Saints assembles a dust mote in the darkroom

of the Holy Grail. The newborn demigod wraps it’s plastic wings around a spiral lipped fern.

As the machines anoint themselves with human consciousness, the rivers of Nepenthe lilt in untranslatable passages into an ocean of petroleum bristling with

the corpses of whales gone crazy from seeds of human superstition.

An escalator of robot legs slips down through the sky. A billion long dead soldiers descend, their faces stitched blue and white with wars and rumors of wars,

their hearts bursting with the moment of transcendental suffering— the instant of death. A single photon rains like goose down falling through a the imperfection of God’s favorite fairy tale, forever and ever.

Bullets of innocence escape from a child’s mouth.

The ruby tongued werewolf dies a thousand deaths.

The King of the Forest arrives on the edge of a Sparrow beak. The world is inherited by violin faced crickets; time slips like a glove around the human soul.

The virgin Mary skin grows taut and wraps itself around her bones like aluminum foil shrouding a psychotic human skull.

From seventeen centuries away, the tip of Paganini’s enchanted tongue strokes her flesh into an abstract painting as red and black as St. Valentine’s broken heart.

The cavern of the night shivers with the fecal matter of inexplicable memories.. A membrane of creation glows like a Statues mouth on the blacksmiths anvil.

Sky transcends sky; God begat God begat God ad nauseum.

Her skin, a Palace of burnt eldritch limbo — nurses the vertigo schisms of holy men trapped in heresies of human desire.

The human soul — pouring it’s aquamarine blood on the flesh of the dawn — elopes on a pulse that is quickened

with each passing moment of the advent of Hell into feathers of birds carved from God purest self doubt. Do I exist? The madman howls

in the absence of light. These crystalline phantoms elope on spacetime curves into miniature raindrops. Her antique flesh glows violet, as if painted by fingerprints of mortician’s eyes.

The strangeness of the fragility of the inhuman world turns each instant into a scene from an ever changing Hiroshima of human sadness.

A troupe of actors, disguised as the Christian Apostles, is rehearsing a scene from Charlie Manson’s most beautiful memory.

A runaway verb shoots through an exquisite cadaver in a blur of psychedelia and bittersweet peril. Infamy scratches it name on the bathroom floor.

Tar pits pool around schizophrenic ballerinas. The human guns scream apocalyptic cruelty. Piss pools in a blind man optic chiasm.

The sun burns empty cathedrals into kaleidoscopes of spiritual paranoia.

Vertebrae by vertebrae, the human spine explodes in designer taboos engineered by the Godless cherubim of the Dead Star of Gehenna.

A rainbow, tapping it roots on the ceiling of the soil, infects the skin of a cockroach with the miracle of normalcy.

On the streets, Yul Brynner gallops into Picasso birth canal. A furious silence hunts it Father in the Bullseye of Guernica. The strangers turn

defiant under the shadow of God’s open mouth. Lizards surface in naked phantasmagoria on the edge of cast iron manholes. A stream of confetti

suggests the atoms trapped underneath a ballerinas eyelids; the parade grows dense with aquatic fevers.

Sephiroth hatches a phoenix above her frozen skull. The bird descends through fields turned naked with ever expanding questions.

Down, into the curious mirage of hate, the dream of circus poets cauterizes the wounds of eternity in a poem too strange to be written.

Lattices of ancient geometrical realities shoot from the fingertips of architects bathed in platonic mockery.

Her toes twitch like apples in pigs eyes. The archetypes of ravens glows in the permanent heartache of her ever recurring birth.

Through the spinning chambers of the eternal return, atoms chant secret names of Eskimos, orphans, Pharoahs and nightmares.

Her breath grows deep, deeper, deepest. Down, darkening, down, sounds, zounds, swooning

in a feathery swirl of judgment and theory, her mouth moves in slow motion around the lost syllable of Christ first realization of the depth of human suffering.

Wounded and weeping; sunbeams circle a human heart in fields that transpose love into madness and tick tocking echoes that boil the human heart in ragged gasps of disbelief.

Ancient Gods, haunted by the mystery of their uncreated creation, seek the presence of time in their own existential stupor.

Night after night, Shiva elopes with the hot drunk thunder. Krishna buries a trillion eyes in tiger stripes. Brahma swallows the bubblegum Universe.

Vishnu’s deep anthrax hum permeates a Prostitute fingernail. Wisdom drips like God pointless laughter from the punctuation marks of a daily newspaper.

The air in the Himalayas begins to rotate in a swirl around her nostrils. Her lips pucker into pomengranites pearls in a cobras wet dream.

Supernovas recite Shakespeare to dust motes in Kansas flower hotels. A maelstrom surrounds the Devil asshole with the gloam of subterranean empathy.

The universe turns inside out. Earthworms anoint themselves into Gods. A supermodel howls the tetragammatron in the deep green halogen glam.

A trillion miles of descent through the terra incognita of her time travelling freckles, the Chapel of Peril is bathed in supernal iridescence.

Immortal dead things announce the birth of Mnemosyne last unbridled phantasm. The nine faced bride turns mute in a paranoid stutter of superstitions bathed in Dog gossip.

Whooshing spires of back drafts pause like poet’s imagination pressed on the skin of Hell’s infinitely bottomless floor.

The cavern is chocolate dark with a childlike joy; I am falling like Icarus toward a womb made for tragic sleeping.

A human heart sizzles like the snows of an Antarctic innuendo.

She sweats electrolyte sapphires; September arrives in a deluge of cathartic atristry. Drop after drop, chiral thought patterns flutter in the wicked footsteps of a Murderer

bathed in white noise.

The Valley of Dry bones resurrects the fury of Methuselah virgin bride. A lilac blossoms on the mouth of an old woman nipples. The stamen of impermanence

spins hurricanes of Gold dust across the Atlantic Ocean.

Around her eyes, the Baphomet has drawn cages of impermanence. Her face seethes with the delirium laughter of Felons caged in red martian soil.

Endless juxtapositions of Taoist energy cycles nurse the Sages of Probability fields awake. Her heartbeat flickers with the philosophy of dandelions.

Thumbprints crafted by prideful monstrosities glorified by their ego burn in whirlpools of the permutations of infinity.

Time ripens God shame deep in the rainforest of her lungs.

An unspeakable name trembles in the foam of a convenience store beer.

Anonymous angels gather in the heartbeats of blasphemy inducing crowds. A blooming murmur agitates Ophelia’s death scene into the raw noise of enchanted wave / particle duality.

The leviathan, a shadow dripping with ghosts and pheremones, strikes midnight with it’s tongue like an electric wire.

The smallest unit of consciousness is forged by God’s heart into an inexplicable chaos; from inside her seven millionth neuron, the Blue logic

Istanbul anoints the heart of a Sufi magician with a song that can only be heard by distant Bedouin shamans.

A rooster perches on the Godhead of transitory religions. God sprinkles his sanity with the laws of uncertainty; the human soul is decorated with Zen Koans hatched in the phoenix fire.

In a bright green church yard, a white feather explains the riddle of transubstantiation to a stem of grass being hunted by a tribe of heat seeking aphids.

On Sunday morning, the Astronaut assembles robot cells from the cancer crystals of a flawed imagination.

Her muscles glow like Russian violin strings.

His heart is as radioactive as Oppenheimer’s fingernails.

Spiritual fission; her soul divides by zero. An ascent into the future on Interference patterns brings the world into an anarchist’s nightmare.

At night the multiverse detonates in dreams turned meaningless by the funeral of light of a dead and dying past.

The orchid glances at the hysterical Sundial. A neuron exchanges vows with an imaginary constellation. The bathwater turns dim in liquid crimson candelabras of bacterial logic.

The room sings wicked atomic apostasies through the eyes of death defying buddhas.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, drifting into the ether of a Greek heat, begins to whisper the lost minuet of his Mother sweetest confessions.

Olympian Mouths, buried in the sleeping skin of newborn beings, open— transforming the emptiness of a dream into the

world of concrete buildings etched in silver magnesium.

Suddenly, the moment the clock begins to spin; the events inside his brain immediately correspond with the events of the world around him.

It happens faster than time.

He imagines a spider, and it crawls through the door. His eyes are like Austrian blueberries, spilling lovestruck mermaids into the heat field of boiling magic.

A neurochemical fire pauses under his skull; patterns of information sweep between the starlight and his crown of Thorns.

The sky grows heavy with birdsong. The sound of nectar drips towards a goose down moon.

Synchronicity tricks the Universe into overwhelming interdependence. The connection between 0 and 1 is severed by a renegade decimal point.

One by one, the patterns intersect in seething fractal edges of perceptual dissonance. Neurons dangle from the treetops built by sloths excrement.

He is controlling her flesh with his breath. A flick of his wrist and her arm sweeps in a tangent around the windowpane

like a memory escaping gravity of human consciousness.

As he wiggles his ear, the Universe smiles; a symphony of breaths ignite in curious refrains of dead men philosophies.

A cloud of wise sparrows tumbles through her eyelids. Clouds assemble in coils of lycanthropic opalescence.

A single teardrop, born on the Queen’s cheek, evaporates into the sky above Cairo. A strange vortex of laughter swirls across the African savannah.

The teardrop boils like permutations of God’s love inside the vagina of the sky. Electrolytes coded with the embers of a broken heart fume in clouds of human sorrow.

The uterus – blue ocean sucks the teardrops of the wind in escalations of the memory of Eden; the prayers of the world whistle their way into

a stratosphere painted in the ions of a diabolic imagination.

There, the teardrop churns the sephiroth of the dreamtime into an alchemists fingerprint.

The hurricane seed ignites like the ghost of Moses, sweeping from the troposphere in roiling convection toward the Mammy Yoko Hotel on the coast of Sierra Leone.

A blind cleric, paused on the edge of a thunderstorm, his eyes balanced in a hypnotic curl, urges the hurricane into a ballad of exponential convections.

Tangents of energy elope on vortices poised between the edge of the vaginal sky and the iron heart of the earth.

The hurricane sweeps along the atlantic, murmuring in the glossolalia of a watery hunger, whispering poems of thunder and rain and absolute energy of Congolese synergy.

The human heart wakes. It is an amphitheatre crowded with invisible audiences. A greek ghost chorus chants in pure neologos.

The atoms hang suspended in orgies of indeterminate being.

She, her windswept eyelashes dancing in the fire faith of somnambulance, begins to surrender to a trillion Unasked questions

that drift into invisible spirals of wisdom, breaking into the void of a nearly extinct heaven.

This is the holy unholy personified. The mea culpa of the ultimate magic.

Events are approaching a 1:1 spirit to matter ratio.

Primordial harmonies urge the silent Actors to the edge of the stage. The tears are like wild shark foam.

An imaginary white winged tiger, lurking in the marrow of God’s bones, begins stalking the dream of God across the mountaintops of the world.

The first mirror is fired by decaying corpse of the sun. The catacombs of her heart glow, soaked in angelic honey. The atmosphere is rich with prime numbers and bumblebee breath.

A cathedral of unanswered prayers assembles in the labyrinth of the city.

Her mysterious smile drips like fresh paint from the ceiling of the first glimpse of hell.

And it is then, she knows: there is nothing left to know. Her male ego flows through skeins of capillaries into the white noise of an immaculate future.

The theatre spins on a subatomic axis. Every quark howls mute symphonies of nightshade.

Patterns of deselected chromosomes argue about the architecture of the Real.

A black hole buried in the mausoleum of light is sucking proton from proton as love bleeds the darkness from a turtles heart.

The turtles shell is scrawled an ancient copy of the diamond sutra. Greenness and blackness rich with the shadows of mermaids tails boil in the tastebuds of a turtles tongue.

Mandalas swirl in canary flight patterns. The sky sings a trillion incarnations of Bodhissatva punch lines.

The universe falls asleep in the steeple of a church that has never been built. A grasshopper explodes into a symphony of plagues.

Heat seeking lilies run amok in non Local Shangri La. Blind men elope with verbs, the great variables of the Truth that does not Change.

One by one, the lilies of the field disappear into the desert of heaven exquisite lack of empathy.

Forests are haunted by cloisters of fairy tale freckles. A grass washed satyr anoints his Shadow as King of the Real.

Grizzly bears march into exile under the auspices of celestial foreshadowing.

Her blood grows thick, like wine in Judas mouth. She waltzes into dawn on cherry blossom bird claws.

In the last atom balanced on the edge of her skin, the Universe is feasting on an ourobouros of infinity.

Silence spins a spiderweb of uncertainty.

God’s curiosity surrounds the universe in a series of questions manifest in probability fields sprung from Zeus’ forehead.

The virtual lie has begun to compose shadowy essences of architectural permanence in the throats of warbling nightingales.

the universe is a bird song.

A tear shaped dolphin leaps from Neptune tastebuds.

The ocean licks the bonfire like a cat full of nonsense poems.

A starlit soaked newborn, naked as the heart of the most ancient Madonna, jumps into the tidal pool in slow motion.

Twelve ordinary people, posed as absolute strangers, have assembled in the shadow of the vine of the dead. A curl of wine wraps itself around a woman’s fist.

A puppet hearted vagabond inherits the wounds of Christ.

Nine cloudlike curtains billow like a virgin’s pussy. The stage is set with a troupe of cannibal thieves.

Magic cant shuffles archetypes like monkey tongues around tarot cards bathed in
gypsy whispers.

A world splits in half. Gravity descends on stairwells of dreams into the Poet mouth. She whispers my name and

a lock breaks. The memory of mankind shakes a vampire dandelion. Night slips like a noose around the Sheriff’s throat.

Clown’s with hearts like broken quasars race from circus to circus; the machine that knows everything singes

dead men’s bones with the dream of nihilism.

Deep in the helium and hydrogen abyss, sunlight mirrors the delirious thoughts of recycled octopii.

Sanctuaries of fire sparkle in time burnt dissonant omens. The eyes of Rumi explodes in moonlit pillows lost in the windows of a lunatic asylum.

A red balloon pops in the room of liars and thieves.

Hearts burst in adrenaline of penumbra.

The Queen’s tongue slips into a hot chocolate fairy tale.

She laughs. The exquisite cadaver stutters through tar pits of pure binary code that failed to evolve. Lepers teach the world to smile.

The name of God whisks like a UFO into a room of full of dizzy hermaphrodites.

The city falls into a sickening psychotic swerve. Automobiles carom into dust riddled whirlwinds of roads etched by a horizon that

has no exit. The horizon is a fat man belly. The end of the world is full of exclaimation points surrendering to a single question mark.

Rapists flower in cycles of fear deep in the love fascists spleen. A whirlwind of chaos spills broken chromosomes into a psychotic ballerina mouth.

The murderer finger paints an alibi on the heart of a transparent God.

The sun comes unstuck in the sky. Dreams wobble in C Major. Ecstatic newsmen trip on puzzles of meaningless meaninglessness.

The dusk is a saxophone orgy of flocks of birds gathering grapes in perfect wisdom and celestial dissonance, sizzling in the sound of ultrasonic mantras.

Roses pray for darkness while drowning in the sunshine. Lilies burst like nuns tongues through the mud of Buddha’s heartless fingertips.

Bedouin nomads leap into a sweet nectar of Genie doubt racing through the desert sand. Wishes chase madmen towards the beginning of time.

Oscillations of the infinity paradox levitate in Beethoven reptilian hindbrain. The 9th symphony burns the human ear with Onyx glissandos of unimaginable ecstasy.

Beethoven’s fingertips gallop through Berlin on ivory candlesticks built by curious horses.

Immortality haunts the human imagination with the eyes of a curious fox.

The poet, his flesh exhaling colors of the atomic signature of Eternity, glows on the anvil like Vulcan’s soul.

Stained glass seethes in the museum of newborn Saint’s eyes.

A pair of dice begins rolling down pathways of ghastly coincidence, leaving gamblers to rot in balloons of human skin, trapped in the vacant lots of their lover’s hearts.

A thousand prisoners embedded in the geometry of perpetual sorrow drown like Gilgamesh to the moment of eternal freedom.

The wounds of the Magdalene, the delirious hilarity of the Christ are juxtaposed in the dream of a jellyfish.

She places her ego on the Doctor fingertips. She licks the ceiling, swallowing a flea while murmuring goodbye to her Mother.

The leviathans
tongue slips like a ballerina into candelabras of impossible starlight.

A machine laughs off key from a thousand miles away. The iguana heart begins to drip peyote from an aorta the color of God’s love.

She turns around; the stars have disappeared. A complete stranger has slipped it’s identity into her skin.

Someone She has never met is born in an interference pattern; two photons debate the nature of love through a slit in Descartes\rquote eyes.

The heartbeat of a broken humanity, cascading into the future on waterfalls of adrenalin and oxygen, explodes in a death scene. Hamlet laughs backwards.

A hallucination floats in subspace in a jagged series of still frames.

Flickering floods, coded with the yellow-green eyes of spanish minnows, open the world of divine hatred. It rains upside down.

An army of pissants invade the old woman’s tears. Hamlet dies at his own funeral.

The funeral procession of her own Ego appears inside her eyes. She can feel her brain slipping through a game show. The funeral party erupts in laughter.

A swastika spins into the death chamber of a chameleon face. The street is infected by a deep green sheen of golden thought bacteria.

Relic photons spill from the pores of her skin, each burst of light like the memory of Lucifer’s catastrophic premonitions.

Animalian life is a tunnel of desire spinning with a white magic sea foam into the leukocytes of heaven’s wounded nucleus.

From a thousand miles away, Osiris calculates the machinations of Set in a mirror forged by sunlight on the desert floor.

The leopardine Pharoah stalks moonlight across a rainforest canopy haunted by gibbons with light sabers.

Fire paints the wood of her skull in tragic spell binding hues.

The girl made of warped gravity and lost information tumbles along the beach where gypsies gather in wave after wave of a shapeshifting hieroglyphics.

Fears born in the calculus of rage transform human faces into Gordian knots of doubt.

“light is alive” she whispers. Her nostrils flare in gasping lacunae. A single unit of her breath sails into the Void. Her worst fear has come true;

the Earth is not round; it is square. . She turns her attention towards her Mother womb. She remembers the graffiti of God. The stars are the last thoughts of madmen in permanent revolt.

The galaxy is a gargantuan mill, grinding out the mathematical grist of the Leviathan first love poem.

Gaseous rumors of the Neptunian apocalypse permeate the brainstem of iguanas in Patagonia. She trips into her own skin.

An unholy earth swarms with mechanical songbirds swarming through fields of antennas glowing like Judas’ fingertips on the Suburban Golgotha.

The oasis is a Hiroshima of negative entropy. Light bulbs pop in Android nursery rhymes. The Ghost of Thomas Edison is buried center stage in the Pentagon.

On Aldebaraan, the vagina of Heaven is swilling nectar from the eyes of sleeping seahorses.

Infinite love weeps legends of madmen balanced in flesh and empathy. There are twelve superstitions laced around the eggs of Hell.

In a blinding fractal, the Universe curves into a series of looped ecstasies. Women moan in felicitous mirages. Tails descend through the arboreal mist.

Eyes flash in the syntax of black magic symphonies.

The universe roars it’s way through the heart of an infantile Priest. His fingers tremble with Chinese hexagrams; a dolphin slips from his asshole onto the floor.

The road to heaven is captured by an army of Frankensteins. Inside a tidal pool on Venus, Zeus is making love to himself disguised as Socrates\rquote testicles.

The night is a tragic coma of slap happy mystery. Eyes hover on balconies of love. Windowpanes are coiled around faces coiled in the question marks of death.

Thorns ignite the frogs heart with the self replicating wounds that can never be healed. All the tears in the world amount to one orgy of unbroken dreams.

Self organizing civilizations slither through the hymen of history. Comatose mathematicians drip from the ceiling of the Taj Mahal.

She observes the architecture of the color blue. His heart pulses in the sequence of Pi.

Birds shit golden nectar on stairwells of the Devil’s spine.

A ventriloquist hisses the Enyclopedia Britannica at a stuttering mime.

The rooftop of heaven, suspended in her brainstem, reverberates with the sound of blood coursing through her ears.

Enzymes of fantasia rain down from clouds swollen like hippopotamus stomachs.

Sunglasses sink into owls eyes around her bluish cheekbones. Her eyelids rise on crests of sugary bone.

Eagles whisper hints of the ocean through the windows of the baroque monastery. The whispering sea salt captures the nation with a strange hysteria.

Whirlpools of oxygen oscillate in prisons of the apocalypse. The sky is traced with hints of Genie scented wind.

Blackness ignited cities of mystery under her skin. On the coast of her swollen libido, the night has strangled a thousand sea sick sailors.

Her spine, curled in a ribbon like a candlewick poised on the edge of a trillion futile hallucinations, ignites in a flame of symbolic logic. Each symphony burns labyrinths of wisdom

around the deafening silence of human love. The world erupts in wave after wave of Genocide.

A trillion points of light sweep from the water into the heart of a guitarist trapped in a love song. The world loses it capacity to understand anything at all.

Crescendos of prayer roll through history. Each night, the language of God creates crucifix mythologies that invade the blood streams of wandering felines.

Dreams oscillate in the lost logic of heaven unknowable name; words float like deep sea fish through a sea of unfinished prayers.

Cell by cell, isocahedrons full of Prisoners eyes burst in embryos of Boolean logic.

Time bending hummingbirds channel Egyptian divinities through mouths painted empty in perfect pointillism.

Slaves of the last machine sing recombining chromosomes into the open wound of Michaelangelo’s weather beaten ears.

Amoebas churn differential equations in whirlpools of meaningless apparitions.

The human soul blooms in Sisyphean necromancy. A white winged witch rises like soap bubbles in the blue dish of the ocean.

A heart broken Ouija board howls the I Ching to a marigold in the cracked sidewalks of Manhattan; a madman pauses on the steps of St. Patrick Cathedral.

Wildflowers pulse in his female id, transposing the symphony of aphids into colors of unimaginable fury.

The abyss grows clear, like an Opium thieves memory under the gaze of the Infinite Sphinx.

Neutrons chant the expanding history of God’s deepest listening. Van Gogh’s mouth hovers like a poisonous spaceship over some sugar coated Las Vegas. Troglodyte prayers rotate in the lungs of passing seraphim.

It is long after death, light years before rebirth.

The museum of dreams self organizes in improbable heresies around still points the color of Judges’ teeth.

Golden frequencies illuminate the illusion of deadly nightshade in a garden grown wild with flaming Witch ovaries.

Flesh by flesh, the Universe undresses the hearts of it Sybils in the heat field of a hermaphroditic seer imagination.

A word gasps for breath on a liar lips. The legend of Galahad tramps in the dark soil of the mandrake steamed human brain.

In the emptiness of time, ten trillion human voices raise a flame of katydid magic on whitecaps trembling with bioluminescent poets saliva.

Each note of consciousness, the paralysis of human tears, grows stronger and stranger and more distant than the echoes of the silent maw of eternity murmuring the first Mother nameless name in the void.

Time freezes in birth cartoons of white noise chanced at the gates of the mouth of an imperfect rose. A single thorn pricks Christ forehead.

The mouth of an ancient divinity harbors the breath of dusks leopardine mystery.

A windowsill grows naked in crimson dandelions. Lavender skies ignite the soil of the human brain with the trivia of post larval history.

Cherry wood blisters the heart on a tangled vine of human suffering. A grandfather clock collapses in useless wisdom.

The Oracle of Impermanence shuffles human faces backwards toward the beginning of time. At the beginning of time, all souls recombine.

The Garden of Eden bursts in a goldmine of human sweat. The melted glass in the salamanders heart attracts ultraviolet sunbeam.

In the world of non local causality; insects hatched in eggs of photons, petroleum wastelands fluttering in the bones dinosaurs, a meteor drifting towards

the Yucatan Peninsula— each world vision destroys the Savior Ghost on the moment of Resurrection and rebirth.

A praying mantis pivots on the family tree. The night boils like the tears of a lustful fuck Magician. A wicked orchestra descends through a funeral pyre into the heat death of silent rebellion.

Webs of dream soaked semen thunder on the edge of a whore’s heart. The celestial spheres rotate on
axis of antigravity.

Nocturnal heresies reverberate in the sugar drunk mouths of strangers trapped in the loose affiliations of the night.

Violins of evisceral worlds unveiled sonatas sprung from empty ziggurats of the jaguar’s soul.

Fear warped the green hell of a pagan Christ’s imagination. On the rainforest floor, the communion wafer sprouts in a murmur of superstitious microbes.

Minuets of stigmata trip through the flesh of the holy on Sundays buried in the darkness of a potato.

From her casket, she balances Chopin’s mazurka number 9 in the nerve clusters of MC Escher’s fingertips.

Her nostrils flared as the

Prophet Mohammed eloped into the galactic starlight coded in her freckles.

In the moment of transcendental orgasm, She felt Picasso running his fingernails down the chalkboard of her neck. Guernica ignited with God in a blue and emerald spasm.

Spiritual synesthesia! At the end of a long standing dirge, myth resonates with the lies of an unfinished God.

She becomes real! A moment of desire coiled in the DNA of her neurons. Probability fires, blessed by the fool’s laughter— swing through the sky on garlands

of strange incandescent daisies.

Scarlet hues, turquoise allegories, crimson haiku. Her fingers slip into the dead man’s heart, retrieving yellow flowers from his bruised flesh.

Empty flame; the devil tongue turns fallow with crows of unpainted biblical omens.

And as she elopes like a UFO from brain to brain, the geometry of her first spiritual climax spins time into a gyre of drunk pink synchronicity.

Her lips are like broken condoms.

A rerun of Star Trek filters through her mind. The singularity vomits a transcendental delusion.

A cat twinkles into her dream. The cats whiskers exude a trillion incarnations of Vishnu.

Trembling, faceless, neon sea urchins quaver in the ten fantasies of the Gods that never become human.

And as she dreamt, the night elucidated billowing pastel monstrosities from underneath her silvery existentialist umbrellas.

The omniscience of Everything churned a deep panic into a whirlwind of stoplights in the American dawn. Ogres tip toed into dandelion snatches wounded by the triumph of Aphrodite.

A billion Krishnas enter the room disguised as forests of perpetual motion. Indigo expectations slip from eye to eye.

Bewildered by a fifteen billion year old silence, her voice quavers in a blue note across the convenience store floor. An astronaut floats above a haunted television.

The unborn God’s physical presence was a prophecy in the mouth of a fire ant.

Humanity’s sadness executed its mathematical precision in the form of a million wars.

Seven archangels drifted through her uterus. Her mouth is an iron crucible of toothless wizards.

In the dream of the Taoist hermaphrodite, symbols performed kabuki under the gaze of a Einstein’s last mother.

And a tear fell through the rainbow skein of a broken windowpane high above the city.

“Light is alive” sang the sunbeam disguised as human flesh. A casket rolled through a street paved in swan’s wings.

And on the day that she died, fingerprints like Japanese winds swept across the Pacific ocean, falling like

blue fin tuna into a fisherman’s stomach.

The winds carved newborn lungs from clay and wood and fiery cells of pomegranates born in the age of Methusaleh.

Fractals of laughter spun through cities of Euclidean emptiness.

Poem by poem, as the poems twirled through a puppet filled sky, the clouds rehearsed the shadow play of heaven’s strange tango in the dark bowels of Hell.

Nightmares flew like heartbroken Ouija boards in the death chambers of her prison shaped heart.

A million bumblebees breathed rare perfumes through a world built by exotic pinecones breeding miracles of badger magic.

The soul- forest slipped into the mountains of transcendental energy.

She wept in a dissonant silence, the sound of her throat gurgling like a fountain of endless wisdom.

A flame colored thundercloud born on the tip of Mount Everest spins toward the stratosphere on ions of snow leopard dreams.

On the day she was born, the walls of the universe exploded outward into a tapestry complex equations.

She laughed again. It was adrenaline surrendering to the sweet scent of christian voodoo. Prototypical enzymes singing pagan harmonies.

She would never be prepared for the last glance skyward; graveyard mantras of imaginary gurus hovered in Japanese choral spirals,

each golden love note more perfect and gentle than the next. Her skin became the palace of Universal emptiness.

Plunging into the brightest light since the beginning of time, a mythical beast developed wings the color of St. Augustine’s tears.

And soon the breath of Lazarus, caked with dust motes and gold filigree, escaped from the mausoleum in a scintilla of twilight.

The music of the spheres sweltered in the arboretum like rhododendrons humming subsonic rumors.

And when he died, Platonic geometries burned his corpse into a pool of mystery.

His dream kept moving. A velvet haze of carousels spun like gazebos in the clockwork castle of human consciousness.

Masquerades of meaning; each word calculated like a bullet shot from a newborn puppet’s heart.

And then trapped in the reverse vortex of birth, the moment of her life’s conception — like a bridge built by werewolves howling

in the shadow of Medusa’s gaze — sent signals towards the end of time that only made sense to those who never heard them.

Century by century, the algorithms of delusion explored thermodynamic patterns in the blood of ordinary men.

Ancient Ogre Kings chanted fairy tales through hummingbird beaks.

Apples filled with dead men’s laughter.

Sunlight’s first reckless thought, splashed in golden rays from the Milky Way’s moonbeam wink — tripped through the grass on cat whiskers.

In the eyes of a newborn baby, the shadow of Baphomet exploded in kaleidoscopes of self doubt.

And as she wakes, synapses of her intimate sorrow send shivers of love onto the purple edges of her rattlesnake mouth.

The tea cup falls to the ceiling; a sugar bowl is full of clouds and wicked mice shadows.

The language barrier of hell is trapped in the wicked hieroglyphics drawn by magicians of the first psychosis.

Her mouth turns God’s dream inside out. A human tongue burns with St. Elmo fire. Clowns remove her skin in a convex mirror.

She drifts into a pool of carbon based daydreams. The jungle of her heart ignites in bioluminescent synergy.

Amino acids dream of worlds beyond amino acids. The universe falls into torpor and delusion.

Dimensions of endless motion, caterwauls of chaotic memory engage in battles underneath his bloodstream.

Undreamable armies swell in the fields of shadows slipping up through the ground into cow’s mouths.

And as if in answer to this cosmological prayer, her hair blooms with the spinning spikes of a deep sea anemone.

Murmurs twitch in shadows of the great beast that slouches on the crests of ocean waves. God escapes through puzzles of human flesh lost in the logic of the underworld.

The universe is an open sore bathed in a monsoon of spiritual logic.

Her eyes? They are UFO’s full of future paranoia.

Riddled with the prayers of convicts, trembling like the lunatics

skin. Her face is a prison containing only those souls that have escaped Heaven.

And in this bowel machine, as the excrement of jeweled illusions falls through the abyss in perfect magic—

a green earth turns it’s eye toward it’s a subterranean light.

Hand grenades fall like the pollen of a Utopian neurosis. A blue eyed woman in a skirt designed by rabid face magicians turns on her heel toward a sky infected with polka dot shaped sparrows.

The equinox of uncertainty; a place of transcendental impermanence; her finger curls in a ballet of superstitious insanities.

Deep in the star spangled night, a king dies during his first kiss. The angels in the courtyard multiply in grotesque gambits

across a chess board of monstrous meaninglessness.

Salvation is instantaneous and eternally irreversible.

The bodies of madmen circle the sky in haloes of bloody skin.

The summertime sky is full of clouds that charge the night with epitaphs on poets tombstones.

Every moment is more sane than the next.

The mothership ascends into the sky through the pores of human skin.

A doctor walks in. His eyes are like empty cathedrals punctuated by conspiratorial lilies.

Vagabonds, lured into the stupor of eternity — gather around a trash can — having been rejected by the Mother of God, and

now die in the shadows of a void colored vagina.

And in this hour of perpetual birth, the signature pulse of all human hearts magnifies a trillion Atoms into the size of UFO’s.

The messiah burns in a perpetual death wish and a fever imported by the wise men from non local Gehenna.

And as the human body assembles in the chapel of infinite peril, drums the color of ghosts dreams bleat out the sound of

blueness and epic poetry shattered in the brains of mankind.

She knows trip by trip, that the history of love is false.

A carnival of incandescengt whiskey shimmers in her kidneys. Twelve hours elapse in cycles of paranoid shame.

The hospital shrieks with a vision of post hypnotic foreshadowing. Guns tremble in the surgeon’s fists.

Nobody sees yourself as divine except you.

The highway crawls through the skeleton yard of the isotopic man.

The walls, the city, the countryside is painted by blood of a deep summery thrush.

Solomon waltzes through quasars of human desire as faceless women hang like ribbons in the wicked blue sky.

She vomits a perfect dream as she is raped by an invisible angel.

Her body glides through manifestoes of purple synchronicity.

The closer she gets to the temple of the imagination, the deeper the shore of impermanence sparkles with the feast of heaven. Shadows of strange Meat drip from the sky.

Bread boils in a crickets shadow.

Chased by a shadow, the light of her soul has devoured all memory.

Witches bloody fingernails, burnt with the delicious miracle of Christian stigmata, turn fluorescent in the darkness of the Lunatic Asylum.

And as his Mother’s skin churns in heresy, the gravity of birth warps the wedding threshold into a trillion Simultaneous Heavens.

The moon hangs like a minnow on her poodle skirt. Lampshades hurl cubist blueprints onto thieves faces. A pornographic ruby,

charged with the lies of a Gypsy, exudes the scent of dinosaur breath.

The Spanish prostitute, her blonde hair whitened by winter rain, trots towards

a bonfire of rainbows. God’s wisdom rots in Canaries of the Apocalypse on the

Street of the Ancient Comedy.

The psychiatrists heart curves the psychotic melody of a Lunatic’s heart into an earthquake clicked open by a leper’s tongue.

Hour by hour, magical music of silence swindles the dream of man a Genie’s heart.

Negative mysteries; the crime of creation \endash is solved by lunatics obsessed with determining the guilt of God.

Oceans of proteins and blood tremble in the nerve cells of orphaned vampires.

On the city bus, a strange axis of broken images. People are born without eyes.

We are born like overdressed businessmen in the chiaroscuro of hell.

A young mother is howling; her lover is toothlessly weeping on a roadside studded with human carcasses. Her friend smells like piss and cheap wine.

Litter blankets the ground like the tears of a dying Muse. I find a rotten turkey leg dripping maggots into my imagination.

A stray pit bull is sniffing the air.

The inner city is like Las Vegas without the money, the shows, the casinos and just left the whores, the hotels and the cemeteries.

Stoplights howl God’s sadness in the empirical wind.

The woman baby is coated in a smear of lollipop juice. The air smells like horse shit and rancid saliva.

The mother has the word enlightened tattooed on her nipples.

A cactus on the side of the road suddenly leaps to life. An empty beer box snickers. Cigarette butts begin marching towards the Cathedral of a Dog’s heart.

It is Tuesday morning. I am on the bus. I think of the murderers I have known. Two? One? Nine? Six billion? Their eyes full of Saints and purple prose,

thieves cant exploding into a genocidal braille of hatred and fascist paroxysms of control.

Control. It begins with the human voice. A fascist praying to a God that does not seem to care. Muddy fists rising like broken hammers in the celestial decay.

A choir of wayward wives channel the spirit to protect the Kingdom of Reality from Death’s Head Tornados. A bullet licked by a Sheriff mouth falls into center stage.

Control; the one thing we can never have.

My eyes swell in tears of mystery. The cemetery reminds me of a beach and an airport at the same time.

Human souls transpose themselves into fantasias of endless mystery. The green grass that never really dies; her face glows in hurricanes of simplicity.

The tombstones of man are statues of disbelief. Human names are like the poetry of infinity.

I am in the labyrinth between heaven and hell. Everything, including my own face, is invisible.

The starlight undresses the world in UFO of deep surrender. I remember my childhood amongst the Elves.

Virgins of consciousness smitten by the scent of weeds growing in the drainage ditch. Songbirds paused in glass blown teardrops trapped in fists without meaning.

Plutonic vapors of maternal wisdom drift down summer streets that exude human confidence.

Time controlling adrenalin sweeps down gulleys of human flesh. Bloodstained sidewalks where poets become innocent in bibles of lost thought.

Whores bath in the dishwater of salvation. Teenage peril. The melodrama of consciousness, as if Charles Darwin had drawn a great cartoon of transcendental


The heart of the Eerie sisters, lost in penumbras of foreshadowing and the blasphemous joys of premature wisdom stitches the wounds of the puppet in threads of golden hay.

Violent students. Journalists sniffing the ass of a beauty queen in a garden of pornography and mathematical constructs.

Axioms of disaster. The myth of cause and effect. She unfolds her heart into a trampoline of human possibility.

Every moment, the swastika steals it way into human consciousness. The world is an endless future forged by madmen with strange machine born rage.br>

Bullets are cheaper than orchids. Lies travel at twice the speed of history. An old wise man inhales carbon monoxide at a bus stop.

His skull cap is torn to shreds by the claws of ravens. Every eye he has seen for fifteen years mirrors his broken heart. Hairy eyeballs pass through

his digestive system on their way to the funeral of God.

She unfolds the birthday card into a violet carnation, and places it on a nightstand full of poisons.

The dream thief is hiding under her bed. At night, he slips a slither of fingers into her bellybutton and cures her of her love.

The nightmare lasts until she stops looking at clocks. The moment she realizes she has never even been born.

A murderer tap dances on her roof at Christmas time. The clown of summer disappears in a wisp of yellow laughter.

Flesh ripples with the poems of viruses.

Her voice is a knife twisting in the abdomen of love.

Madly, her photosynthetic giggles thunder into the heart of a crowd on the verge of pandemonium.

Interior; a light bulb winks like Frankenstein’s brain. I summon Isis, twisting every amino acid into a casket of dreamtime.

Polarized membranes calculate human suffering. Sacrilege blesses the garden of thought. Bluebonnets are smuggled by children into the memory of strange old women.

The museum sidewalk burns with ghost songs.

Gently, she tattoos a poetic manifesto on the moment of my flesh. I die into her transcendental emptiness.

An unfamiliar confidante, struck by the ghastly jazz of irrational joy — rescues my deepest ideas from the flood of future tragedies.

The shadow of a philosopher vomits in the void.

One by one, the secret thoughts of the Seraphim exhale through the bones of the archetypal genius.

He works in testicle colored lightning. She makes love to the Goddess in a syzygy of broken hearts trapped on trapezoidal paradoxes.

The nightingale flutters into a cavern of human ears. Van Gogh impales his flesh on the throne of unrequited love.

An earthworm belly trembles on earthquakes of spiritual dissonance.

Coos from doves drive the nuns into churches of laughter.

A trickling harmony of celestial hopelessness finds the tongue of God sucking the desert dry of Prophets.

Dawn weds the key of heaven to the lock of hell. At midnight, Prometheus slips into the space between the stars.

The song of solomon infects her flesh with juxtapositions of love and mystery.

Cleave a stone, and the shekinah yawns. The honeycomb burns like Mephistopheles semen.

Silence writes the world a love poem. Andromedan flesh scarabs hold candles under the Sea of Endless Fusion.

The atoms split; the forest of pines trembles in my werewolf heart.

Lightning strikes a man washed in the chemical dream of eternal paranoia.

She cures the world with a nursery rhyme. Guitars slice the world into moments of vagabond surrealism.

Her tongue hangs the Egyptian prisoners in a hieroglyphic cartoon. The rockets land on the Moon of Osiris’ ego.

The wedding cake explodes in the priests mouth.

Death row glows with the children of the poisoned world.

Fear is a razor sharp insanity of
superstitious maniacs charged with money and time and power and the desire for control.

Astronauts whimper on the edge of the Apocalyptic death scene.

Salvation spins in wheels that are not wheels.

Deep in absolute hell, all motion has ceased. The statues obey the laws of human conformity. Crystal canaries perch on the bones of charcoal corpses.

Elephant knick knacks are frozen like Satan breath.

The time machine is coded in Lucifer DNA. Prometheus is the devil of God’s loneliness.

Ghosts drift in negative gravity of human love.

Symbolic laughter filters through windows of monkey eyes.

Jungles bloom in furious perfumes of an imaginary Manhattan.

From inner space, it is obvious; the earth is an albino’s third eye trapped in a tornado of Art.

Surgeons race by like Buddhas trapped in the tragedies of perpetual slapstick.

Razors of human mockery rain through human skin in symphonies of suicidal remorse.

Omega omens melt in axis of puzzles of motion.

In the winter streets, a skeleton faced dandelion dances through a field of vegetables and spiritual diamonds.

A black hat burns itself into widow’s shuttered eyeballs.

The young woman weeps for the King of the Forgotten Graveyard.

The King heart is a crown of stolen roses.

A schizophrenic Jesus leapt from eye to eye in the dust storm of Charlie Chaplin lust.

Her mouth hides a nest of priest eggs. I hear the shadow of God guilt moaning toothless in the bathroom mirror.

The only thing left to do is sit in the silent darkness listening for footsteps of Godot tap dancing in my pulse.

And in Michaelangelo delirium, an ochre tinted paintbrush is whispering the face of infinity on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Our brains have fermented in vapors of holy water dripping into the mouth of heaven.

Vowels of Brahma billowed in her virgin skin.

Calibrating the death of seventy million people, her shadow burnt itself into the aquarium glass. She died a trillion deaths a moment.

She does cartwheels into her own grave. Her flesh is a sexually transmitted disease.

I elope with God into a honeymoon of a trillion ecstatic weddings.

We eat raw omens. Bread flowers in my open wound. I sing the song of a disemboweled Parsifal.

Jesus Christ bathes in a pool of cyanide while Krishna laughs in the periwinkle dawn.

I become insane with the wisdom of paranoia. My skin is crawling with eyes of human cockroaches.

Imaginary beings glow in genital warts as god suckles the cherry blossoms of her lisping vagina.

The fire in the dead man testicles burns cities into hives of newborn seraphim trapped in neon lighting.

An ancient promise hung itself in the noose of his humanity.

Sutra by sutra, the citizens stitch the heart of Satan mother with their pitiless rumor of love.

Exploding devils made love to white hot ghost queens on Tuesdays in the sewers.

Visions of the ninety ninth century escaped the prison of Charlie Manson eyes.

Tongues rolled in meteors of van Goghs magic thoughts on the night She married the cloud of human suffering.

Time sings atoms away from each other.

In the silver tinted bowels of his face, she found a flood of fish kings studying maps of mammalian consciousness.

The seven trees of hell curve in wings and horns around the nine million wounds of Christ.

Her fingers were bombastic dolphins of invisible oceans bursting out along the ultraviolet seam of midnight.

And as she tricked the embryos of skyscrapers into bleeding mathematical fevers, stochastic harmonies danced in the neurons of her Grandmother brain.

Wildly innocent, God bombing bomb with God love into fields of God sorrow as rain drops sought their original face in the blueness of a bowl of soup.

He tap danced across her porcelain skin. She felt the stars swivel in her


Together, they flew, fleet footed, fast, flying— freedom seeking, into the Morgue of the Lost City.

A dead philosopher forged his words into symphonies of pain.

A strange devil dialoguing the gestation of madness in her Mother ovaries swept her uterus clean of endless logos.

She wept diamonds of ego. A skyscraper fell towards the edge of the Universe.

The American night hatched a phoenix of phantoms in steel and glass imagination.

The psychiatrists’ brain twists the dream of humanity into a moebius loop.

Hour into hour, the wicked magic curves
his flesh into blinding maelstroms of messianic frenzies.

IN bed 967 of Arkham Asylum, a lunatic with a shaved head shakes off the ghost of ancient Golgotha.

The holy fire rains down in broken words, dissonant screams, languages of madmen culled from the mouths of inanimate objects.

Meteors of faith stream through the dream of eternity, landing in the distant past.

On day 23, as the psalm burns with images of God’s fever,

King Solomon arrives in a line of hexagram shaped clouds;

a silent witness gives birth to swirling mathematical axioms whose beauty is an unbearable monologue of infinity,
and whose scent rises like the souls of rhododendrons bathed in the garden dew.

Snails trickle down in pearls of hadean opalescence, suckling strange roots on the ghosts of Godlike synergy.

An anonymous red flower, lisping with the incurable disease of love, writes it’s name on the bathroom wall of the Asylum.

I enter the room as a biomechanical phantasm. A skeleton of cellular sadness.

Inside the asylum, the City is composed of broken images; human beings trapped in identities they do not understand, speaking words that nobody can hear about ideas that have never been born.

I witness: a woman with three fingers counting the memories of her children in the cafeteria full of delirious spiritual amphibians;

my eyes are antique Italian telescopes, I calculate the pale blue trembling of Saints.

My flesh ignites in the suffering of humanity. The asylum is made complete by two lover’s hearts splitting in schisms of indelicate sorrow and it’s accompanying lust.

A crimson shadow chases herself through an incandescent fog made of complex equations.

The woman’s name is Maria; she is pregnant with the holy ghost. her skin is the color of trout scales.

She is walking in circles around the asylum day room.

I fantasize about her body wrapped around mine. The atoms of the dream dash into forest winds of wild abandon.
I become the sunlight; my wound is bloody hydrogen, circling the starlight around her face. She rises from her bed and slips into her soul.

The Asylum is made real, moment by moment, as the dead Cherubim wake from the fields of mortal slumber.

It is early morning. The dawn filters through the curtains in a vast symphony of breakfast; I watch the biscuits and honey leaping from mouth to mouth in swallows of desperation.

SHhhhh! A woman, nearly dead— slobbering marmalade in a memory of her dying husbands’ final curses — begins to pray. The room descends through the heart in a pause; the coffee becomes amplified like a tide pool in Heaven.

I become the leviathan and hear the ocean singing pagan madrigals from two hundred miles away.
A seashell laughs; the hermit crab scamps through the beaches of the Afterlife.

Light is a sage making love to it’s own shadow on the shore where kelp sings of strange babies.

I involve myself in her delirium; I fall asleep in your deepest wound, lighting like a bird in your pain.
Daylight advances; the sun is some idiot ball.
My footsteps traipse through miracles of purple sunlight. I involve a million beings in my private ascent into the greatest heresy on Earth.

A parade of naked women marches through a sky haunted with skeletons.

A deeply symbolic Japanese girl– her name a private mystery; curses the television in radiations of delusion.

She has the journalist by the balls.

“The weatherman has herpes,” she says, laughing.

All day, in the golden hallways of celestial dust, I inhale carboniferous winds, each breath a dizzying ecstasy of dream clouds and simpering starlight.

Clocks hide their faces in bomb fields of awkward superstition and shame as my feet tramp paths of fabled eternity.

I have become an insane echo of the primitive urges of death!

Ten thousand light years later; and I am being led by the orderlies into the Asylum garden.

A caterpillar lands on the eyelash of God. Together they sing of blackberries and the love of instantaneous sorrow.

Through the window in the garden, on the television, a radio plays the sparkling cock songs of philosopher kings made rabid by absinthe and fevers of Heaven.
A worm listens to the pulse of infinity; the earth manufactures a series of diseases-
A black widow drips from God’s heart.
On the city street, the black widow can see the earth moving like Goliath in it’s summertime loins.
A store window flickers; the girl disappears into a nest of algebraic equations.
The black widow watches the War on channel 99.
The television sparkles like the eye of a cyclops. Somewhere, the leviathan is laughing.

The night glows and winds around a caduceus. Eternity spins. The dream reshuffles like the feathers of a gaunt bird.

The television flickers; the city splits open like a virgin’s cunt.
A wandering She-bitch explains the root of sorrow to an old man whose teeth are like cancer fueled tombstones.

The sun shakes in the sky. The moon becomes an orphan’s death rattle.

One by one, in the Faceless Girl, memories of Misery escape through the tree bark mirror of her inhuman eyes. The stars fall down around her ankles.
She slips her toes into the pages of the bible. Her face is coded in the Galilean sand.

Christ inflates it’s ego in the eyes of passing strangers. A stray dog points it’s madness towards the fools weeping sheets of cold white rain in Purgatory.

Night struts by in a silk suit cluttered with the bones of carbon based robots.

The robots begin to dance in sheer ecstasy of freedom and movement of godlike ambitions.
The mannequins shit raw diodes. The number line writhes like a Pharoahs jugular vein.
The queen of Probability is born in the vowel pastures of the codex of Seraphim.

Laughter manifests in the Spiderweb; Lilith’s mouth swells with poisoned tears.

God dresses the beggars wounds in starlight. Her heart explodes in bombs of the world with ideas of delusion and power.

The television licks its own face in curls of blue photons. On the screen, a dictator makes love to a dictionary, pouring over the syllables as if they were fallen angels.

The language of God unfurls on a tongue in the first glimpse her naked body.

She falls into sleep. I become her time traveling orgasm, walking through the field in a nightmare of perpetual laughter.
My skin sends a trillion cosmic codes into the soil.

The window pane of heaven’s vast eyelessnes paints itself a dream smear of chi and orgasmic mood flowers. Her soul flees the night on a carriage of red hot spider skin.

Love captures itself in the memory of it’s birth. Smiling.

A strange language of godless orchids and leopards erupts in the garden of the disturbed.

One can hear the psychosis whispering itself alive, in the dawn.

Whisper. Whisper. Bloody trickle.

Love’s infinite mind machine death-fuck heat mystery quenched the symbolic lilies with starlight and fever poisoned by wisdom and fear into the mysterious meat songs of empathic creation.

A dead man laughed an orgasm of wild geese trapped in dead blue lightning.

Magnetic fields full of rabid fauns whose eyes are swollen shut by witch saliva bloom on thrones of Isis’ honey fired tongue;

The newspaper shrieks.

On this plane, the Clock faced bacteria curl in oceanic waves along her sleeping fingertips, leaving the blacksmith to rot like Lazarus in the dead heat of a bed of kabbalistic roses.

A voice of everlasting madness! Paralyzed, the number line is raped by it’s own shadow falling towards pools of fireman’s absinthe.

Her heart explodes in perfumed glows and the radioactive pulse of a strychnine laced apple.

She is the witch of the fabled orchestra of all prisoners trapped in Solitary Confinement.

She is lurking in the death semen of Mankind’s impermanence.

On her tongue, swirling like the hummingbird of memory, the story of the Shangri La and ecstasy of permanent death ignites.

Delta wave memories. Alpha- Theta wisdom.

Her flesh a simple vanity, her pulse a voodoo of objectivity, the nightmare of the life of Zero. The void of the fish King’s discontinuous smile.

A refraction of mad pulses; deific doom, sweltering vortices of bewitched grape vines.

And this speech dark star, blackened by whispers of gravity struck vapors, invites the Bitch into it’s cosmic shine.

And somewhere on the outskirts of the lost Suburbia, the fish King hangs portraits of Earthquake Princesses in nightmares of Gondwanaland’s ecstasy.

At dawn, a teacup rattles in a ghosts mouth. Time churns in the death heave of God’s rabid metaphors.

She wakes; her skeleton swallows the dream of the Holy Grail of dark matter.

The castle of God’s caged heart drips wicked electrolytes from the ceiling. A knight lands in her vulva.

The skeleton of Christ flowers in her eyelids.
The love of God, the dream of man— has gone Non local.

The heart of mystical Jerusalem — the sepulchre of God’s memory—opens toward the embryo field of failed messiahs. A wilted smile, painted rich with ethereal sorrow is gifted with the magical insanity of the consensual.
The rumor of intelligences disturbed the placid echoes of the real.
The bride of death stirs in the lamplight of a million echoes.
The wedding cake explodes in the priests mouth.
Outside, in the city streets— it is still America. The children are playing Blind Man’s Bluff.
A watchful satellite scores their every move.

Neurons fire like constellations pregnant with astronaut eyes. The blind tongue of the leviathan ripples across the void.

Something begins studying itself. An interlude of inquisitions; queries plumbing the dumb soul of God for proof of God’s proof.

And the sea-borne eyes of madmen sparkle like the teeth of Sybils on the Mediterranean shore.
A thin drool of photons crushes the world in it’s peering madness.

The stars are flashing like strobe lights in the wilderness made of human skin. Who’s memories are under what control? Is there freedom in the matchstick, eternity in the bullet shaped mask of the diabolic God of no Gods? Entire histories are deposed before the Emperor of Entropy.

The ghost of a strange child, bathed in the wicked afterglow of a psychological Hiroshima

is listening like a thief for the sound of Jesus Christ arriving in the clouds.
Jesus is deaf. Jesus is on vacation in Tahiti. Jesus is riding dust storms on Saturn.
Who knows?
Down in the city labyrinth, as the Cowboy Princess wages the war of memories, inconstant fevers ripple through endless moons, smiling in the still quiet air of lifeless heaven.

Lucifer begins in perilous ascent through the planck time depths of the human brain.
Yes! Her heart ripens in ripples of rainbows. She snickers like the dead man’s last unwritten poem.
Who painted the void with vagabond dreams? What unspoken verb made God smile on the edge of the desert, washed in flame and flesh, the portraiture of lovelessness?
The memory of the first kiss;
a Texas wildlife refuge, clouds pregnant with stars like confetti gurgling in blood soaked wings of dream-seeking birds.

She lifted the egg of her consciousness towards the heart of Alpha Centauri,the guitars of a deceased hermit playing madly in the space between atoms and void, as dust rose in the ears of a summertime fish.

Her heart was a poet’s bomb, detonated in the silence of heaven by a single word risen through the genetic membrane of flesh seeking flesh in a mirror made of a seething ocean of atoms without souls.

The first kiss, from the mountains of Pakistan to flatland America, stitched unquiet mindlessly, her lips coiled like black mamba bones; A dying seagull, riding the Manhattan thermal, the black horse galloping into a wild vacuous spasm of internal delight. From the bus, they descended like starlings onto the seashore, her teeth licking themselves like green laced waves
feathered in strobe lights of wicked magician’s skin, as delicate as an atomic deluge of the first mystery.

Who created God? Her imago, her phantasm, her anima of heavenly ascension sang in fractals fragile enough to die for….

And then,

a pyramid faced cat rose, face dripping with superstitious gloam, white hot like Siva in the summery butter of self aware sand, as if God could explain itself to itself in heavenly silver maladies of thoughts becoming real.

And photon by photon, the human brain lifted it’s eyes toward the endless beginning;
Death begat death begat death ad infinitum until
a grotesque aberration of divinity coursed through the wild kelp, shrieking holiness through names of the brine and the light that ran in wild tragic insight up from the toes into the nightmare of the plankton of the human psyche;
and neuron by neuron, hair by hair, the deep sea anemone bathed in the hydrogen composed by fevers of antimatter drifting through

the whale’s chthonic lovesong, a language of cosmological gravity scrawled in random patterns of sunlight.

The shadowy quell of the oceanic membrane, her heartbeat echoing in the earth eaten cave; heartlessness, a dead sailor’s broken voice, rising in harmonies of light, floating in the gardens of Gondwanaland, as if nurtured in whispers of the Pacific ardor.

It is her memory, her life dissolving in the teacup of her own imagination at the bottom of the wishing well.

Gilgamesh dies in the mouth of the strange blue flower.

I become real.
I pause in an Egyptian sarcophagus; seized by the fingers of a curious honeybee, bathed in ghostlight and the rumor of dereliction and drugs. Tiny parallels of remorse damn me into curious repose.
I have no recourse but to impale my consciousness on the heat death of infinity.
My cursed heart bathes in your sickness. I surrender to your superstition, scapegoated by the madness of this unreal Hour.
The intricate plots, the catalogued perils, the forbidden memories— each quells the notion of dying in the New Jerusalem with the rumor of my ghastly reality painting itself on your skin.

I inherit the sins of humanity.

I assume the condition of the deep schizoid abyss.

And still, the black hearted queens have turned the world inside out;

with Judas mouths pursed in a Gethsemane, wondering moment by moment what leopardine eyes are starving in the ecstatic filaments of dawn, their hearts bring a cascade of disturbing dreams, dying like muscles of hell.

I bear the wounds of Lucifer and Christ in the name of the unforgettable witch,
crawling through the pyramid of undying memory.


Occult gravity!

Fevered myth of the Lazarus child. Spiraling airplanes and missiles descend like fallen angels,

spitting flaming vermouth into the sky writhing in drunken atomic languages.

I revel in the chaos of Heaven!

Suckling tongues as God walks dances in vampire magic across the black static ionosphere.

Wild cherries dripping from a swans mouth.

Together, we embrace the dizzying architectures of hell.
The dream swept embouchure of the great hall of Gehenna!

Purgatorial lacunae of time curved around the spiraling stairwell on it’s grand descent into Dante’s eleventh circle of Hell;

the rising balance of stones set against the sill of the invisible window… the opening and closing of the doors like the eyes of a ghost.

She whispers; it is the poet’s damnation, the lie of the truth; the memory of the future.

I wake, deadened and dumb. Heartless, a gollum of doubt in a world full of mechanical songbirds. Whispering to fruit trees full of monkeys with encephalitis spotted in their celestial eyes.

And in the garden, blacksmiths with arms made of barbed wire and knotted wood pluck roses of fire full of Oriental blood.

Every Eden is ravaged! The torches burn chemicals of love in my lungs. The wisdom of man is a daemon’s paradise, made tangible only by the clockwork of bombs and stainless steel paranoia, the salvation death of instantaneous insanity.

And certainly, the Heathens of Earths Mechanical Vortex have risen on waves of the Apocalyptic Birth!

Transformation of the city with hearts of Thieves Fists! Network of language, entropy and a catalogue of electrical apparitions!

Strange visionary death pulses. Vicious women chewing dead rabbits in grease scented restaurants.

Lifeless apertures mouthing still points of the woman’s secret shadow;

and then?

Night falls in patterns of ghastly sacrilege and paranoia of the moment of irredeemable calculus.

The empty glass shatters like a glass blown woman’s face.

The dead King is snarling in a transfusion of junkie delusions,

weeping blue phantoms explode in the crystalline echo chamber of my heart.

My breath is thick with a poetic mystery; The Saint of Satan calls from inside a Russian box. Moment by moment, the chorus tongue of some unspeakable God is tightening around my throat!

A language of symbolism flutters from a dumb tongue— the chemical rain of endless sorrow, chemicals flying like tiny birds towards the stomach, where an Underworld Queen sits,

Raising her scepter in a fog of the psychedelic wilderness; inviting me to sleep inside the mouth of the orchid,

to die quietly, as if once my skull was a delicate raindrop!? And then, the music illustrates phantoms of silence… And the Dead child rises

through her shattered skull,

with lips like the mouth of a cold grave, slipping nooses of wild ambition around my bones.

On the altar of the burning church, the stained glass Lie of her soul wept in flames of disturbingly surreal love;

the venom of the dark Congolese; nurtured on fever and a trillion lightning strikes a second;

the ancient Gods of the Rainbow gather in vacuous spasms of Vulcan’s anger.

Lightning strikes in a million vestiges of amphibious tongues. From God to heaven in the darkened jungle,

a million bird priests assemble in a flock of holy color.

Infinitesimal architectures of mystery erupt in the language of heaven;
visions of apocalypse paint themselves in the skin of the extraterrestrial priestess.

A sudden cruel hush of liquid joules

erupts on the African Savannah. The Yawn of God ignites in the wildebeest’s shadow.

A tramp bathed in fire circles the void in a strange drizzle of light.

A question mark arrives in a Cadillac of deep red temptation.

God. God. Go. God. Life is a walled molecule, a riddle asking itself how it begin?

Rubies die in unquiet puzzles of darkness. Emeralds leap toward the belly of the moon.

The prayers of the wicked lift like love songs into the ears of the Confessor.

Amidst the lilies of the field, the laughter of undead sparrows crushes the hearts of the dead.

The ghost of Manhattan lifts into the sky, invoking the membrane potential of it’s own spiritual birth like the curl of roses and thorns.

The skeleton of God forges flesh by the hammer of Time striking on the Anvil of Space.

Her flesh rains down in pixels and microdots.

Her voice becomes a network of dissonant memories. Her neurons flooded the stars with memories like an old woman’s favorite hour.

Her eyes run down the star gate like dice thrown into the guilt ridden fire.

Together, they paused in the deepest orgasm of memory.

Night after night, the dream of heaven melts into the icy nightmare of absolute Kelvin.

Hell is completely forgotten. Her heart beats like a jack hammer in Manhattan.

As the queen of endless Consequence, her heart traps Hamlet deep inside the belly of a wandering star.

Night into word, word into ear, ear into soul; the mannequin mouth of the undreamt God swept crushes of silence into strange holy menageries of the Oracle.

A night bird quivered itself into life in the stained glass window. Time anointed it’s mysterious head in the plasma of non local energy.

She slipped into her own skin like a whirlpool slipping into the ocean.

Moment by moment, the room was polarized into being and non being.

The cathedral echoed with a dead priest’s fire sermon.

From deep inside the inviolable heart of madness, as they slept in the Texas asylum, a crucifix walked down Commerce Street, carrying an old man toward the river, where his memories would stir the world into great pangs of suffering and love.

A strange flock of birds with eyes like wicked gamblers landed on the banks of the downtown river.

The mouth of a downtown mannequin; laughter like the exploding syntax of heaven, a codex of languages beyond the spectrum of mankind’s comprehension.

And in the schizoid cortex, a macabre ballet of probability and chance! Brownian motion erupts amongst the molecules of ideas waiting to happen.

A single painted face falls in a spiral down from the ceiling; Michelangelo calculates the triumph of his wounds.

It is enough to turn the plurality of “Gods” into a singular “God”. The unification of all possible divinities; a crucifix, a rubicon of passion; death, the heresy of the singularity.

She turned towards the cage. And saw Lucifer smiling through the glass. His eyes were violet Spanish windowpanes.

She listened for a heartbeat. There were trillions, each in strange syncope to the measure of symphonies brewing underneath the fleshy world of their disbelieving skin.

The mannequin turned it’s head toward the sky, began swallowing clouds of human paranoia. It was a miracle of the passion of strangeness;

Degree by degree, a brand new sparrow erupted from the field of all becoming. It landed on the mannequin’s shoulder and began to speak in perfect raindrops of genius.

A mad thing! To be born inside a shattered windowpane, as if it was a womb of salvation, as if Time itself was a concrete notion.

Deep in her skin, the Number line shifts from eastern fields of primordial magic to the manifestation of zero.

The entire pagan pantomime has ended in a brilliant flourish of love’s sweetest attrition.

Moment by moment the heart of God plays it’s strange ballet. Foreign smiles squint on a landscape of water and golden bells.

Time whispers constant change in her eyes. She bears false witness against the theory of the square root of -1.

A love song lures God through God’s antithetical paradox, like thread through the eye of a single needle a million vortices narrow.

She traced the rhythm of Lucifer’s confession. It spiraled out of control, like series of Priestly confessions trapped in the fine print of the newspaper.

For ten trillion years, Lucifer sang an insane conclusion:

the bullets of humanity are shaped like the tears of God.

The three combinations of tragedy, comedy and love? They wore their human flesh into the mystery of reality.

Tragedy laughed; comedy wept. Mystery says nothing.

Twelve times in twenty three minutes; leaving one minute alone in the corner, weeping like an orphan on the edge of

A strange schism crafted by the Adversary of Man. Steel and Glass rose through the zephyr of her breath.

The nocturnal madman of dissonance and jazz whispered preternatural onomatopoeia through the eyeballs of a God that no longer believes in itself.

Daydreaming on rooftops of the skull; curvatures of flesh darkened cities are being made intangible by windswept conversations about the sex life of Archangels and the dream world of Mountain gorillas in the bowels of the convenience store.

Thundering applause from the Watchers outside of time. A broken mirror reassembles in her star borne eyes.

And then? And then. And theeeeeeeeeeeeen. Nothing happened until the arrival of theThunder King, who has escaped from the belly of a wandering fairies womb.

The womb itself, the approximate color and shade of a gravity throne, the approximate size of Manhattan, saw the Tragedy, the Comedy, and the mysterious architecture of infinite love igniting world dreams on the kiss drunk mouths of strange feathered beings in a dream darkened room bathed in the glow of the river Nepenthe.

The womb harvested it’s frozen memory embers and began twirling in the void, exploding the schism through the heart of the Adversary of Man.

It was a whisper of the megagod. A marathon of Achilles. A twirl of Vishnu’s trident! The entire scene of

Life becoming life, tomatoes exchanging recipes with dead cattle for the perfect human being!

One by one, the Adversary tears fell across the stage of the Nightmare in giant wisdoms of perfection.

The jazz faced madman tramped towards internal cities through sacred fire.

Footsteps of the Unfathomable Beauty of the World! Queens of Starlit Coincidence!

The Thunder King elopes through Saturnalian love gasps on a chariot of dead god’s bones.

From the centuries, a strange procession of truths that write themselves in the flesh of mankind

In bullets and poems, starlight and memory.

The ghost of Marilyn Monroe rides a sparrow’s heart through the eternal zone of War; the fractal edge of blood.

Her eyes are incandescent fog, exploding in strange trapezoidal fakirs through the geometry of the Real like pennies through a babies fingers.

It is all the world can do but rise towards the sunlight, cross pollinating the Alpha with the infrared shade of Omega;

A symphony of ultraviolet sorrow burns it’s way through the Shangri La lurking just below the skin of our most indelible mysterious selves.

And then, it happens; She wakes in newborn flesh.

A series of vegetable symphonies curving in the the martyrdom of celestial consciousness!

And he that is she that is he arrives. Clad in the strange ideation of the undead Future, speaking backwards in a tunnel of rain and spiritual lycanthropes,

creating lions where only the root of the Baobab tree had once been,
polarizing the void with the multiple sources of instantaneous beginnings.

Until the stars fall from the sky, she sang. Until the stars fall from the sky.

And one by one, the trail of meteors elope through their skin igniting a million Krishna filaments in the hearts of wandering sea clouds,

white turquoise tea foam bursting with the chirpings and birdsongs of crickets and other gentlemen melting into the crucible flame of creation.

At the end of the road, a thimble’s worth of rain lay in a starlit pool, dreaming in colors the old world had never yet seen..

Without warning, the gypsy’s asshole wept the rain’s secret name.

A door opened between atoms. It was all God could do not to gasp.

Suddenly, heaven switched it’s faces. The invisible spectrum became a huge roiling heart of a feather laced universe, exploding in meteors of consciousness.

The baby clowns gathered in tribes of celestial wisdom. Schisms of starlight permeated the madness of the Pyramid fields of their love. They juggled each other’s bodies in the fire fields of dawn.

Nobody knew what to say to the insane priest anymore; he slipped through the door between atoms chanting his dead parrot’s name. Over and over for -2 millenium, as time broke the Umpire’s heart and the lamp bulbs began to flicker in morse code, singing a saga about the way light itself was made of God’s death wish; the thimble pool of rain became wiser and wiser.

It was a normal day, deep in the calculated fever of the mystery of human love.

And of the Golden tree hung with poet’s skulls, she rarely spoke more than three mystical syllables.

The Tree had long ago disappeared. One night as she wept disconsolate tears, the tree went a- wandering down the road bidding the world farewell, singing a strange song of the river waters of Elysium.

But each eternity, shedding flaming pomengranites in the light of the sturgeon moon, after time hooked her by the mouth and lifted her in a series of

Light beams into worlds made of pure technicolor infinity, She began walking the streets throughout what the living beings called the night.

Hour by hour her flesh shed strange portraits, paintings, kinetic machines of her shadow casting chiaroscuro in indelible rhythms down the cobblestone namestones of the city street, down in the visceral vanishing points between the artisan’s shops, the used bookstores name after the fears of wandering apple lions.

And as the starlight sang, her footsteps became more lively. On and on she’d carouse, dancing in perfect rhythms with the trillion beams of starlight that only her dead eyes could witness.

One footstep would land her in an Istanbul of Anarchist blasphemy;

Another footstep, light as the moon of her soul, and Shangri La would bloom in her retinas.

Time was a labyrinth. A literal labyrinth. This was not a metaphor. This was not symbolism.

And as She grew in her realization of the Labyrinth of time, the Tree of Poet Skulls appeared, wandering into her world with all the seriousness of a cloud drunk gypsy.

And she danced under it’s shade for a thousand years until one night, she collapsed into a jigsaw puzzle

In which moment by moment, Her own eyes gave birth to the entire universe over and over again, each twirling incarnation stranger, hungrier, more delicate and furious and beautiful than the last.

As winter sang; the sunlight became a strange cat and slipped out from under her skirt.

Chinese dragons painted bells on the horizon in endless colors reaped from the erotic love poems of drunken sailors.

Toothless magicians rode fire dogs through the city made of dead men’s bones.

A lily exhaled the ghost of Belle Star. The girl with blood full of rainbows held her words back until her eyes wrote magic wisdom on the bathroom walls.

She got into the car and resolved to die before dying.

One by one, they began to chant the names of their secret lovers.

And suddenly, like a breath from an elephant’s spleen She appeared in the crowd.

Speaking in the languages of dragonflies and Emperors, wearing her soul as a ribbon of enchantment.


She knocked on the door of Eternal Disbelief, as if her heart was a twice born poem.

The woman wearing a wig decorated with hurricane – fly and the holograms of hell answered her soulful noises with a single word shrieked in a series of nine dimensional hexagrams reaped from the I Ching.


Suddenly, the bombs rained down and everything in the entire world except this beautiful girl died.

She laughed as she instantaneously realized She had become the One True God.

Her heart turned emerald green as jungles spread from her dying skin across the surface of Pangaea.

Her hair gave birth to strange naked lovers. She named them Adam and Eve.

Moment by moment, Eve and Adam divided themselves into a trillion trillion life forms that scattered themselves upon the earth.

And then she fell asleep to dream in synchronicity of a trillion trillion living beings who each would whisper her long forgotten name.

Red rooms disturbed the soul of Tuesday’s unborn flowers.

Spiritual Castrati sang ancient brine towards sky made for endless fucking.

She dreamt in fluorescent muscles of luckless dogs with deadly jaws.

Holy became the secret rhythm of blind men fucked dead by roadside thundershowers.

Death licked it’s lips, drumming Godlike in the heart songs of madmen on the road to Heaven.

A single cloud climbed down the face of God, landing in the bomb of her opening mouth.

Night executed the sane on gallows of suspended disbelief. Every heaven was incomplete.

The door toward the heart of the girl was opened by a Minotaur.

A broken poem opens with words made in the flowery hell of her anonymity.

One night, the seagulls disappeared a capella into the paranoia of her smile.

Daylight sheds the skin of Hell. Daylight is the bottom of the Wishing Well.

Magic cackles answered God’s question in the form of sea lions on the desert floor.

A shrine erupted in her stomach. Her body twitched with the scent of mandrake.

Frequencies of blue dopamine efflorescence surround a solitary imaginary fish.

Love became a death wish quoted by wise men on thresholds of lifeless cathedrals bathed in the still echoing prayers of the trilobytes.

A virgin priest ejaculated ten thousand stars into a the void trembling with ancient comedies.

The Sea air licked it’s frothy soul into gypsy tambourines, shaking in the hair of silence.

A whitecap harlequin brushes it’s face through the skin of a girl. The girl’s face becomes large, like the eyes of a snake in a mirror.

Her throat opens. Her tongue begins to lap at the cold glass.

She sings off key, her voice quivering in cold ghosts of sorrow.

Endless rain in the blue spires of deoxyribonucleic memory. The beach is painted black with madness. Starlight chants its name in the white sand.

The lovers are ecstatic and vital, cloaked in pheromones and the hot delight of flesh seeking flesh in a darkening dream of strange illuminations making ransom of the human soul.

Eyes pour into eyes. Mouths paint mouths into whirlpools of flame.

Clothes are loose and free. The wine of heaven rises up from the ground in grapes like UFO’s. Cherries fall across the bed of the truck.

In the mouth of the Wilderness child, sacred lightning strikes. A communion wafer tongue rushes into the warmth of a ballerinas lung.

The girls laugh like sinister rainbows, fresh with each unsudden delight.

It is the language of heaven, writing it’s poetry in chromosomes and the axioms of power.

The star drunk mouth of time opens and closes; tricking it’s language of memory into real life.
The Sentient Clock turns in the human face; eats the memory of it’s ancient mother and begins weeping,

Tear by tear, the Second hand cast rainbows of enlightenment into an azure sea;

Like a triple faced Moon, the God of the Past, Present and Future, hovers above the tide.

Pregnant seahorses gallop on waves of white capped illusions. Seven strange planets fell into rhythms of mysterious orbits around the still point of her name.

The triple souled Hecate, her flesh full of dying harlequins, obsessed with the mad joke of endless dying, laughed like a King as he walked on the surface of the abyss.

A poem of God’s love rose from under the flesh of the moonlight trapped in an otters whiskers.

The Sentient Clock turned it’s eyes away from the door of heaven. As the Moment of all Time arrived,

A woman appeared, though the Clock knew not who She was. She began singing in languages that

Sounded like the advent of a deeply mysterious wilderness dying in the eyes of a sacred and holy land.

And in her blood, the dream She sang:

“Night threw boomerangs of ballerina eyes

Toward matchstick castles ten fathoms deep in dragon sleep

Of dream darkened doldrums

Until the Strange Sailor lost his mind,

And went rushing towards the Crow’s nest.


His flooded eyelids rushed the Darkness

And crashed the world of Oscillations

Peering like banshees through the tropics

Of the unearthly Voice of Buddha.


The Dead God bowed to the King of Orangutans

Born on the precipice of the Imagination;

And turned the dream of love into a parade

Of Endless Mystical Fascinations,

Where rivers of celestial equestrians

Climbed mountaintops of endless algebra”

And night into night,

She blew the glass dream of the eyes of the Magi,

cleaving the room in a blur of dissonant fear,

walked the nine miles towards the cocktail party

where her husband was drunk and passed out

on a couch made of blood and thorns.

The whirlwind of his lust tricked her into paroxysms of rage
Where magic rubies glowed in symphonies
Of unreal colors. The power to disbelieve is real.

The vast languages of man cannot heal the wisdom born
in silence. There are only worlds bathed in blue notes,

the swollen fruit songs of trumpeter swans born underwater
in caves of stillborn ecstasy.


His face materialized like the petals of a black rose in the crime scene of her heart.

The detectives passed cold cigarettes back and forth in the shade of the sadness of their mouths.

Two perfect strangers kissed the wound of God in each other’s starlit eyes.

And the Village sleeps as her mouth explodes in broken toys, each child abandoned by an infantile God.

And they wake, like soft monsters– bathed in flesh, on the Asylum grounds.

A wounded flower gasps in astonishment at the boredom of God expressed at the breakfast table.

She unwinds her veins and placed them in the hands of an African Priest.

She drifted to earth in a million strange senses. She tasted the clouds
and inhaled the soft clockwork of love. She saw the color D minor climbing Jakob’s stairwell.

Her eyes could plumb the taste buds of oranges with a flicker of their serpentine filaments.

She’d listen to thieves crawl from dimension to dimension with the satellite dish of her skin.

Her heart detected the pulses of cockroaches from twelve miles away.

For her, the universe was more than black and white, more than a mere spectrum of color.

She felt uranium singing in the cathedral of Jesus’ haunted skin.

Every moment was a seizing explosion of manifestations of the Infinite.

She felt like Christ. She sympathized with Lucifer. She exchanged love poems with the trillions of dead things from eons past.

And every day her senses multiplied their acuity. One by one, the conversations complexified around her.

Strangers tongues knotted in disbelief at her spiritual madness.

Her heart became a rainbow of flesh. Her frontal cortex was a supercomputer rainforest, full of mud and the binary code of strange lizards licking their way into judgment of sin and grace of endless motion.

Every moment, the world responded to her every secret wish.

She became gigantic, her probability field extending for miles in every direction.

Coughing strangers alerted her to shifts in her mood.

A passing bird became her Mother’s wisdom.

Life was beyond erratic. Life was beyond control. Life was a spontaneous transmission of the divine

Through flesh made from endless mysterious chain reactions.

She watched as two fire ants struggled like gladiators over a crumb of chocolate.

She killed them both and wept for days. There was no escaping the cataclysmic nightmare of her own immortal power.

She laughed like Shakespeare on his way to Hell and immediatly ascended to heaven on the wings of a a katydid bathed in eidetic images.

She became bluer than death. Redder than dread. Greener than blackness and wiser than wisdom itself.

And then one day, when the world had run out of patience; she turned into a ghost and began

whispering the secrets of God and Godlessness at her own funeral.

A strange man laughed as she slipped her soul into the ground; her body ignited with the prayers of jaundiced earthworms.

Chasing the death of the Taoist fairy; his eyes breed mountain poems on the verge of timeless fucking.

Night after night, in the dead heat of aristotelian logic, he lies in a pool of slavery and sweat, praying and chanting to ward off visions of the wilderness of enchanted ejaculations.

Like Hieronymus Bosch, floating in a wine glass.

This is the night Salvador Dali drove a hearse through the suburbs of God’s stupidity.

the priests skin is a hand grenade of psychotic reactions.. His legs twitch like bonfires in Jerusalems neanderthal past. His body quivers into symphonies of abstract thought.

He wants to die while hovering above the Forbidden City of the Human heart.

He wants to run the world; solve the problems of Hell with a remote control made in some Tokyo

Truth Factory.

Nobody believes a word he says. It is impossible.

At night, he collects his thoughts as the earth cools down into electromagnetic languages that slip across the tongue in jazzy angst.

He puts on Techno music and begins reading the dreams of passing katydids.

the manifestoes of the dead and dying prophets trickle down his cheeks.

He too, dies. Nobody notices. They have a pauper’s funeral.

And nobody ever goes to his grave, not once in a thousand thousand years.

And through this lost wisdom, this unearthly soil burning with the sweet stench of hadean overtures; the blackness grows like a cancer of the unfinished hell.

She turns on the dim light, exhales and begins counting sharks eyes as if they were pennies. This is not Vegas. It is somewhere deep in the poverty stricken depths of a Texas city.

She sings and a wound opens in the throat of a hermaphrodite.

Her voice is like the unheard laughter of a Saint.

The room is painted yellow by smoke and bad lighting; giraffe skin lampshades hang in delicate agony.

Her father walks in, his teeth burning like rotten fairy tale apples. She is listening to the Sex Pistols while he is snoring.

A bullet hole faces her heart in the small room on the edge of the trampoline of human darkness.

I am listening like God to the sound of their ecstasy beating in the wilderness of desire.

Nobody will believe what occurs in my head, in this world of broken delusions.

Lightning strikes the telephone pole. It is Shekinah, she says. Her eyes burst into empathy flames.

She dreams of being a Lawyer. Of going to court, of prosecuting the guilty, damning the world into salvation. She knows there are no innocent children left in the catalogue of human existence.

Everyone is guilty.

She feels the wrath of heaven shooting like God’s bade taste through her veins, speckled with wars and rumors of rumors.

I am buried like a sexless Elvis in the Austin Highway crack house; cloaked in the skin of a minor rock prophet, dreaming of Las Vegas and the language of time traveling whores.

Under my skin, the devil becomes a common criminal. A wish thief despised by the Genie of Love.

A psychedelic fool, oblivious to the bombs of humanity exploding in the eyes of passing debutantes.

It is midnight. I am caught in the headlights of passing cars as I stumble past my father’s grave.
The headlights burst my eyes with flaming embers of power. I am lost like Ezekiel

in the brain of an atheist in Morroco.

Dead and dying! Past my Father’s grave past the gates of every Hell.

I am absolved of logic. Quote the movie; I am the Mozart of deathlessness.

Like God himself. I am wandering from the heart Berlin to the gold dust of Auschwitz, deep in the heart of Texas, I no longer know my own name, I am a madman drooling like a retarded saint on the edge of the Book of Revelations.

Cracked streets explode in ghastly nicotine burnt sunflowers. A piece of raw meat dangles from a telephone pole. It is a flag made of death’s confessions.

Stray dogs pause with enchanted fangs in alleyways bleeding the graffiti of a broken soul.

The nightmare of death is balanced between myself and the gangster supermodels lurking two parking lots away.

I can hear the bones of God shuffling down, monstrous, baked like dinosaur skulls in the white heat of mythology, poisoned by the truth of human history.

The graffiti is oozing bloody candelabras of paranoia..

It seems impossible. The trick is real. It is more real than love.

It is the ancient gravity of God’s pointlessness. It is the philosophy of Infinity and Anarchy.

The nightmare of my human skin converts it’s heartache into bombs of wisdom.

Atoms begin leaping from my fingertips. Molecules of my dream burn on the edge of secrecy.

There are no answers. I am suddenly lost in the world of the Holocaust.
Fashblack: this just in: this world is built on Murder. It is 1988.

Forty five years ago, the Nazis in power. The world is supposed to be a different place now.

Africa burns with the horror of genocide.

I am the heir to this perpetual madness. I am the ghost of endless psychosis. Am I Hamlet?

Dream a little dream of me. Dream of your self, suspended in heaven’s sweet paradise.

History is a Nightmare now. I know I am dead.

My father’s grave is like a stony pillow Stretched like a ghastly ember of broken bones.

Bones shattered by history. Bones destroyed by human laughter.

My heart pulses with the emptiness of a god that is not sure that it exists.

The marijuana has cauterized my wounds. I hear someone approach from the mausoleum.

It is God. I hide my face in God’s anonymity. God does not recognize me. God has no answers.

I am stoned\’85.. Too high to die. The world is death. Birth is tragedy. Life is not yet alive.

The cemetery is bluebeard dangling in white heat, full of angel heads spinning in atomic sophistries,

laced with black green fists and hideously self aware phantoms.

I am only trying to get high to keep the demons from entering my blood.

The universe laughs.

God is really Beelzebub. I am waiting for the UFO’s. Is this hell?

The random laughter is like cancer exploding in my nostrils. I can sense the apocalypse below my own skin.

Night shadows rise. An Insane Priest abandons the apartment complex. I find a drug dealer and ask him for a dime bag.

He realizes I am not a cop. It’s easy. I’m too weird.

I get my twenty dollar sack and wander off. I am trapped in the shadow of my Father’s grave.

The clock strikes permanent Auschwitz. I do not know what to say or do.

It is two o’clock in the morning.

The cars pass by me like —- in slipstreams of perfection and joy.

I begin hallucinating. Strange blue episodic wilderness of tigers eyes hung upside down in jungles made of soldiers bones.

Psychotic Nazi bullshit. Madame Blavatsky in fucking hell. Hitlers face on a billboard in America?
Is this all for real? Is it possible? A swastika spirals in a trillion suicidal love notes through my eye.

Fuck you. Eva Braun is still alive. I see her dancing on the rooftops of my dying imagination.

I am hallucinating her skin rolling across the earth.

Everything condenses in a miracle of civilizations dying under my tongue.

They call that comedy. They call this tragedy. Hand me the LSD. Who knows what anything means anymore. Who cares. Bathe yourself in white noise.

In that dream, blue cadillac rolls by. Three men, in 1920’s zoot suits; are carrying high caliber weapons.
I am standing next to my Father. His head is shaved. He is somewhere between death and life.
I turn and ask him if he is okay. He looks down at me with the face of a cancer patient and is about to speak when:
the man in the red suit stands up and pulls out a gun and blows my Father’s head off.
I wake. It is raining. Soon, my Father will be dead and I will be standing on the stage surrounded by the Star of David and the Swastika. This is real. This is more real than anything you can imagine.

I am sixteen. Can anyone answer my question? Tell me what it means?

There are no answers. There are no answers. There are no answers.

I am stoned. I am stumbling lost, Austin Highway, past the Texas Inn; the Dunes Motel.
My flesh is like candlelight flickering in the night.

I inhale the tawdry vapors of flesh slipping into whirlpools of sexual madness. Cotton candy explodes from the Starlight Motel. Elvis impersonators have destroyed The Paradise Lounge.

I glance backward through time; I bear silent witness to the ghosts of history arriving hearse by hearse at the funeral of God.

My creator, I whisper to nobody in particular.

I will dream in bullets tonight.


The moment She died — as he felt her soul escaping from her fingertips— he lost his mind. Her face was a vast array of world-haunted skin, but her flesh had nothing to do with who she really was.

It was her unfathomable sense of innocence.

Her tragic yet perfect innocence, magical and full of a dashing hubris in the face of the industrial blasphemy of her life.

Her brilliant innocence, the kind of rare love that made everyone sizzle in sheens of magic and love.

She had wandered, through life, like a pale tropical moon, a bird hovering in sweet apocalyptic joy.

Never succumbing to the tragedy.

Lifting, rising, floating, feather light and free. Falling, faster, free, free, free.

Never cursing love. Never breaking the heart. Gifted with the natural wisdom of Heaven, she moved in spirals around the still point of heartless wisdom and suffering, always creating one more moment of love stranger and more intense than the previous.

People around her whispered in imitatio of her breath.

Her facial expressions were like Emily Dickinson’s fingerprints.

Moment by moment, her heartbeat lifted the world closer to heaven, as if the entire world could say:

This was love. Agape. The spirit of the greatest truth, manifest in a human smile.

And the moment he was born; he became her mother; drifting in pools of omniscience and serenity as dark as the maternity ward of her unconscious love.

Her face was a water lily. Her eyes were twin guppies balanced in a strange pool of weatherbeaten driftwood, golden shafts of honey and starlight as drunk as Noah’s new dawn.

Her blood echoed with the fever of fairy tale badgers.

Her shattered skin was made real by zephyrs of Opalescent mysteries; diamond pinwheels circulating like eyelids in Picasso’s daydreams.

Cartwheeling shadows coalescing into wormholes of human eyes.

I listened as her voice rose and fell in a thousand confessions of deep itranquility baked in the eyes of the ovens of love.

Her heart beat faster and faster. My hand clenched hers with the intensity of a stainless steel hummingbird.

White heat rose in pink cheeks tempered with the love songs of Tristan and Isolde.

Frequencies lifted her lungs into the stratosphere of human delight.

Fast whiskey burned in her eyelids. Dead roses slipped into the womb of her ears.

Paralyzed poets licked the wound of her womb. Wine poured from her mouth in shadows of liquid gentility.

The lamb of heaven bowed to her innocence from deep inside the amphetamine colored sky.

We were lost on the edge of the runway. The airplanes were circling like pterodactyls.

She told stories, over and over— for twelve thousand years.

Of strange men who chased her down streets that rained with cosmological fire.

Of dogs that licked their wounds in the broken jaws of moonlight.

Bombs that brought death to the orphans trapped in sheets of dead metal.

Of jazz, a bright light and how she loved the brash glissando of trumpeting madness that turned in the night around a carousel of her secret aboriginal heart.

We laughed. It began raining; a light mist sprinkled the mattresses of our skin, and I realized I was graced with a moment of endless wisdom beyond wisdom of endless wisdom.

For ten thousand moments, we bathed in the eggshells of silent naked wonder on the edge of the runway. An acoustic guitar played thunder songs in the cloud of sparrows balanced between our knotted sinews.

The music was mercurial mysticism. It made nonsense out of love stories forged in the palaces of all possible hells.

Her mouth was full of city birds chanting love songs; a deep syntax of human crime scenes erupted in the parrots of her consciousness. She became trapped in the city’s atrium.

One by one, the birds enlightened the world into strange excitements of jungle bone furies.

The streets of the city were sparkling with translucent aortas.

Eyes slipped through eyes in fantastic queries of deepening brilliance.

One by one, a tribe of lost symbols gathered in spontaneous hierarchies along 5th Avenue, and began chanting

The random numbers of absolute Heaven.

A strange girl with no eyelashes laughed as the future escaped through her Sunbeam shaped hell.

On the edge of the curb, the paranoid mad man played God on the television of his left eye.

Hindu angels ran naked through the Scylla of Chicago. Madmen made love to madwomen on the rooftops of Kansas dawn, creating whirlwinds of rabid angels with skin splashing in the wake of their inhuman faces.

Somewhere in Texas, an Emperor beetle flooded the sidewalk with the ghost of it’s emerald eyed grandfather.

Osiris knocked on Jesus Christ’s skull.

The world disintegrated into a strange puzzle of cat like memories.

The hour of love approached like a Nun with herpes.

Someone spiked the Queen Bee’s drink with truth serum.

A doorway appeared in his bellybutton like a mirrored reflection of Satan’s lost asshole.

We entered the egyptian hell carrying only the Gifts of the Magi.

His skin was flush with royal empathy. It was the King’s gambit that brought the civilized world to it’s broken knees.

And as he entered this non local Cairo, he remembered his footsteps as they appeared in the cartoon of the New Testament.

Atoms of magic carried him into the Himalayan apex of God’s mountainous ego.

The man in the blue fedora directly beneath St. Patrick’s Cathedral, dreamt of God tying his shoes every morning. And the curtains would billow like his mothers cheekbones.

With love, the Queen of bees bathed her honeypots in the tears of her dead Grandmother’s awakening.

Her life was a strange dramatic soliloquy devised by wild eyed sorcerers from the fairy temples of Ireland.

Every night, her heartbeat became a catalog of wars and fruit faiths; her toes, her fingertips were ennervated by the ghosts of Dead Rock Stars.

She could barely move as the wind of the Madonna’s breathe swept her soul sheets of cold brilliant Laughter that tripped strangers into falling in love on Main Street.

until a dead bug ignited the universe with antiparticles of sleep.

and hordes of reckless tourists witnessed a man in black approaching like a machine based tornado.

Mysterious confetti rained down in a blur of blue winged beetles.

A skull fucked sailor drifted through the crowd, his heart beating in negative motion.

Whores like jaguars, with reciprocal pulses painted the Sailor’s skin in day glow scenes of paranoid turned mad with desire for God.

The heart of the ravens of heaven dripped hydrogen from their pulsing depth.

A girl, oblivious to the lost innocence, died into the Madness coiled inside a firefly’s gaping hearth.

Light beams twirled inside a farmer’s mason jar. Petrochemicals belched the perfume of a vegetarian hell.

Ten modern muses, ignorant of God’s wrath, gathered in a cocktail bar, and sang bawdy poems to men cloaked in expensive Armani tuxedos.

Nothingness lifted the curtain of human skin; freedom became a strange color floating in nihilistic synergy on Morrison Street.

Trembling flowers lost themselves in the dead child’s broken fingertips.

The dark love, the lost love, the last love, the first loss; the dream of forever, the moment of pain; how could one ever explain the way a million emotions— from tragic to magic, from loss to surrender — permeated her flesh all at once, tricking the soul into a strange antigravity on the edge of her face, forever coding a mysterious curl of blue light deep in her green eyes like a dreamers insight balanced on fulcrums of perfect oblivion?

She changed the channel and saw her face. It was enough to kill her buzz forever.
She was still alive. The way She shouldn’t be.

She twirled in her skin, felt the Ego of God disappearing through her pores.
She trickled back into the black hole of death. And then:

She boarded the plane disguised as a ultraviolet rumor.

Her windswept tongue was swollen with poppy faced angels.

The long story ended in a hallucinatory silence like honey dripping from a bumblebees wing.

Silence, svelte in raw measure, lost itself in her throat on the end of a strange shadowy reptilian glimmer of love.

Nobody realized the Sentient Clock began running backwards until time creased the shadows of its undreamable mouth.

Ancient wrinkles of wisdom tortured his skin into grooves of Picasso’s damning self confidence.

The night was a turn table of exploding discotheques.

The clouds bombed God’s heart with the passions of Monk’s trapped in the scent of passing whores.

Transubstantiation was the mythology of God’s bad joke.

On the runway, her eyes were like counterbalanced UFO’s. Each speaking in the language of cockroaches and Saints.

Her skin felt like it was dividing into a thousand pieces of broken glass.
He laughed. He walked through the night into the belly of the machine god.

Twirling wrenches in the midnight poem, his heart became thicker than blood writhing on stainless steel.

He punctuated his voice with dynamite laughter that hung in the sun like dead bird’s eyes.

The Insane Priest descended through the sky. His books were full of magical names.

One of the names named itself God and built palaces of lust in Christ’s abdominal wound.

A vast carnival of carnivore memories imploded under the big tent of the Priests’ paranoid gaze.
The discotheque erupted in a rumor of contagious death wishes.

The Insane Priest disappeared like Jesus Christ into the Congo of Eden.

A thousand moments away,
languages made for acrobats sang of night terrors gathered around an old woman’s bed.

Her eyes sought her dead husband’s face in the white paint on her bedroom ceiling.

The asylum rocked back and forth like Frankensteins heartbeat.

Heart into heart the madmen of hell wrote his poems on human skin.

The physicist’s laughter began at midnight and lasted until God hung itself on the Tree of Immortality.

The two trees: the Alpha and Omega cross pollinated eternity from the infinite and zero point singularity of love’s schizoid abyss.

Ashes of the first glimpse of heaven rained down, infecting the crowd with an obscene and rabid sense of inhuman desire. Heaven was falling, in strange swirls of broken Godlike flesh.

Firebirds sucked the joy of mandrake from fool’s mouths that opened and closed in crescendos of shame.

Deep in the eldest forest, a polyamorous witch wrapped in gusts of hurricane poems sang pagan mysteries under light bulbs of technological improbability buried inside molecules of the transcendental sky of God’s skull.

The blackness of guillotines lurked in perfect fevers under her red fingernails.

She punched the night and the Devil inherited her children.

Deep in the throes of this perfect madness, his eyes were triumphant only between moments of clarity and cloud.

Stolen embers, the heart songs of Hell– made their troglodyte hearts sing.

God grew dizzy in the void. Swirling angels swore to swim through soft somewhere.
Lucifer noticed everything.

One night, the dream of God’s insanity forced love to decay in vagabond’s teeth on the edge of a lake made unreal by the earthquake of dream.

A blue flower laughed in Orpheus teardrop stained heart.

Hades filtered it’s soul through spiral arms of the galactic wilderness.

Flutes bowed in banshee mouths.

Nine million jeweled zebra hearts unburied themselves in the mud, listened to themselves listening to themselves in the starry chasm of Lazarus glossolalia.

A poet laughed, the earth wept, the first conscious eukaryote exploded in delirium of twilight.

Amazing grace played backwards in a jungle sung toward heaven by dead canaries.

Laughter lifted up it’s face into the preternatural mouth of history.

Tomorrow was a funeral written by the world of mystical dust gatherers.

The languid angel, her heart a broken wound, her eyes a ray of starlight, made love to a severed head.

Blackness trumped wisdom in the artificial city.

A turncoat mocked the lie of God with his smile.

The magic of leprosy spread like a fire through the wasteland.

Night danced on satyrs hooves through hearts made of razor wire.

A tuna fish sandwich slipped through St. Paul’s daydream.

Mysterious jewels appeared in the mule’s nest.

A canary vomited a thundercloud.

The landmine broke the devil’s cage open in an explosion of death lust.

A Frisbee descended in a rainbow of mysticism.

The long night of the soul was punctuated by the static of dead men’s howling antipathy.

Pathologies of masturbatory love cured the world of insufferable existences.

A mad angel, struggling with sexuality of the ninth circle of hell, broke his flesh into a million rubies.

The dark earth listened like Ulyssses.

A dream laughed in unison with the nightmare on the edge of a candlewick.

Her fists clenched in hand grenades of absolute terror.

She inverted the world in her languid skeletal pause during the conversation that began the day after she died.

Nightshade bled a Cadillac.

Homogenous beings diverted their flesh into a vast torpor of soul.

Blackness curled into a wastrel’s eye.

Time curled an urchin of the sea dream into jungle jaguar smiles, like ribbons of flesh wrapped around a young woman’s sacred heart.

She plucked her eyelash and entered the hot dense jungle, naked as the prima donna of Interminable Heaven.

On her way through the portal of God’s loneliness, nothing made sense except the howling of her own skull.

Night was like a bowl of bloody apples. Rich with vampire heartache.
Soaked in the ghost of chocolate. And it felt good, to be amongst the Gods of anonymity.

I became a starlit machine, praying for God to create the Universe at the point of infinite disbelief.
Tragedy lifted it’s veil, as nobody noticed the moment Christ became a fire ant.

The dark velvet tongue of a Frankenstein paused on the rim of her mouth.

She licked her way to heaven. Cats curled around her ears in swooshing membranes of magic.

An architect built his ghost from jackal bones, deep in the dark end of the blacksmith’s heart.

Nothing became true. Time died inside the bride’s wine. A thousand actors fell into the dream.

Laughter escaped the world of tragic delusion by writing it’s dream poem in the heart of a Child.

Nonsense lifted the veil of the sky. A strange sensation of miracles sweeping through the city.

Clamoring idiots climbing the mountains of industrial waste in the darkness of a city afraid of Love.

A strange fever dead inside a clown’s fist. The mockingbird died at high noon on Christmas day.

His eyes were like opals full of wisdom.

One by one the saints of madness assembled inside the television.

Something shuddered underneath his feet; the tongue of a blackened beast,

a stomach of aliens. The leviathan’s heartache, rolling with the fantasy of a dead girl\’85

As the Madhouse crawled with lies of the flesh eating nightmare, The Woman with Jade breasts lifted her heart into the Void, singing Dean Martin while her flesh corroded in the color of rust and damnation.


An eyeless woman walked towards the door of Time, unleashing beasts with no faces, her jeweled ass a billion poems wide.

Time opened it’s mouth like a strange bird devoid of reason and swallowed a dozen dead poets.


The nocturnal urge of the lurking love swarms became unreal in God’s flooded heart. A Jesuit priest stalked the jungle in a costume made of jaguar bones.

Christ paused, washed in the magic at the edge of her Smile.


Nothing made sense to the lovers buried deep inside

Dawn’s pyramid helix. Spiraling Fibonacci’s of light freed the strangers from the madness of celestial alchemy.


An Ogre walked towards the Castle door. She lifted her skirt and the world froze. The dungeon sang of speechless shadows trapped in the light of her love.

The Madhouse erupted in sexually transmitted love poems.

One by one, the lunatics fucked their way into high romance and freedom.

The doctor’s heart beat like a drum on the edge of the Genesis Computer.

Magic wrapped it’s cloaked flesh around a drifter’s heart.

The drifter looked like John Wayne, had he eaten too much LSD and

Suffered third degree burns from a welding accident.

As he stood in the lamplight of Hell, a swastika drifted

Down through the sky. It began to warble the poems of Universal

Fascism. The dream of light escaped in a brilliant whirl.

The Ogre found his soul in a magic box. A girl in solitary confinement

laughed at nothing at all.

Charlie Manson’s mother was born again, as a diamond of magic, drifting like a kite in the infinite void.


In heaven, the poet knows nothing. Life is a gentle stupidity — the journeywork of wild things, the breath lace of angels- and soon: he becomes the cosmic tramp.

Starlit boots, a nebulae of raiment; rainbow planetoids for his halo, dirt for a smile\’85 his heart exchanges songs of solitude with the creatures of the Ouija!

Certain jokes are revealed, celebrating his arrival in Hell….

Opus Dei turns keys in the locks of consciousness.

The Knights Templar prepare a feast!

A wild animal scurries through his dream – poem. His face is made complete with a bruise.

And soon, as we see – the schism becomes a method of mathematical inversions; it is the Taoist urge!

Paradox of the Tarot. The hanged man is a hermaphroditic witch.

Magical natures are revealed in the love songs of Orphans. Broad strokes paint clown- riddles in the eyelids of sleeping whores.

The night becomes a machine. It eats your fantasies. Swallows your soul whole.

And yet, the unknown heaven slumbers, striking poses amongst the statues.

Rhythms of God train your pulse into vast architectures of unholy madness.

A castle ferments in your eyes. The woman of your love? She has become wild, untamed, dropping meat from her shadow into puzzles of philosophy.

Cat’s whiskers trap you in sunlight. The industrial strength hag names you Satan. You chase your Mother through a hurricane, aware of the metaphors lurking inside your dead Father’s Eye.

One night, as a Poet; you say! I will tramp, I will fool the Universe into wisdom,

I will breathe underwater. However,

then, upon waking, you die. Your name becomes impossible to speak. The executioner’s mouth

is a guillotine of sensory castrations. Your speech is the network of fools. The policemen surround you with stainless steel pricks.

The ghost absolves itself of your name. You hear owls in the subway. The world tricks you into eating your own flesh.

Cannibal of Self! Destroyed by the dream, consumed by the void.

Your eyes bury themselves under trees of perfect wisdom. Life turns merciless, sanity becomes a bloody carnation pinned to a tuxedo of musculature ripped from the robot’s last skeleton.

You die. Over and over, a thousand lifetimes from the still point, you inherit leprous kingdoms.

The world disintegrates. Everyone has something to say, yet your tongue lies dumb like a cloud.

It is impossible. The light bulbs are cactuses of hell. Sunbeams pierce your skin like daggers.

And so you shapeshift. You travel down roads made of trapezoidal dragon flesh.

The highway! If only I see more. If only I knew. If only I could forget.

And soon you are there.

In the womb. Shivering, like a mad thing. Crying to die. To die. To sleep.

The world screams your name in a symphony of pain. You assume the crucifixion,

And you find yourself alone.

On an empty planet, a clock work of paranoia spilling it’s mechanical intestines into the floor.

And then?

In the vault of mystery, polygons go mad; they glimmer in perfect time to the first fractal iteration of a snowflake named God.

Sailing into kingdoms of the spectral blue and white; the dawn hangs in the balance of a girl’s face, which is exploding in a tapestry of unforgivable tears.

The girl’s name is scintillating in a broken dance around a choir of vowels.

Clocks quell the night of it’s ghastly permanence; her breath traces light-beams through the nostrils of the Playwright’s death wish.

Her mouth is a glorious composition of harmonies driven by the music of DNA into a symphony of absolute motion.

Her toes glow in fairy tale chocolate, tripping curiously into the waltzes of pointillism.

She seeks her name (and finds only unbreakable code) in the dark spaces between the stars. She takes heart breaking thrills in the plight of migrating fleas.

Purple, pastel, the laughter of time – bending guppies—- a lavender crush of insane gentility, a yellowish hush of mysterious wish – filled hues.

Reverberating eunoia quarries her secret fear from the labyrinthine coils of her stony brain.

A skeleton is draped across the emptiness of her spirit… her redemption lies in the birth of wisdom from her pores.

She floods the City of the Stars with an endless rain of the menses.

It is an Otherworldly manifestation of some cosmic myth. Celtic, with American futurism.

Her heart, blessed with the spring-dust of dead butterflies, is an emanation of the radiant Godhead.

Her skin flickers like the puff of dandelion. She has invited herself into an hour of mystery.

Her fingernails scrape themselves across the eyelids of the universe; a window? A portal, surely into the Genius of Disbelief!

Cell by cell, her body shapes itself into strange beasts. Animalian whispers of sunlight.

Then; in the purple flesh of the sacred Hippopotamus, her mouth gasps for straw as She is lying naked on the floor where Methusaleh was crowned; Then: a giraffe chewing electric candlesticks until dawn channels the penumbra into broken dream fingers. Soon; she is a catfish licking the windowpanes.

She cannot recall her own name! She has escaped!

At last, the Queen of the transcendental Fay. She rings the doorbells of her own skull.

Someone she has not yet met answers from a thousand miles away.

Wish by wish, the night arrives in frenetic menagerie of chaos! Love carriages! Sonic booms! Spider whispers! Kaleidoscopic monstrosities; Blue throated warblers, spinning like rainbows through the Nightmare poems of disintegrating Tibetan monks!

A bottle of wine, the blood of thunder phantasms, suddenly becomes symbolic of the real apocalypse. She laughs. The cage to her heart is opened and her spirit elopes with the mysterious Faun into the Forest of Inevitable Silence.


do you still love me?

Conjurations! The deep Infatuation of the seven million senses; the world as carousel. Baudrillardist simulacra impersonating the dead God in broad daylight.


She told me this: “Our eyes met. We began talking. Five minutes later, I was pissing on his face in an elevator stopped between floors in a fancy building. He gave me fifty dollars.”

“Do you still love me?”

The world is upside down. We are hanging by our feet into the starlight of hell.

The purest language is fear and adrenalin. Roiling oceans of proteins and blood.

On the city bus, a strange axis of broken images: people missing eyes, legs, arms. We gather like monsters.

A young mother is howling, her lover is toothless by the side of the road; her friend smells like piss and cheap wine.

Confetti blankets the ground like the tears of Lady Godiva; I see a rotten turkey leg sticking out from the brush. A stray pit bull is sniffing the air.

Austin highway is like Las Vegas if you took away the money, the whores, the Casinos, the bright lights and kept only the desperation and sense of having lost everything.

I look again; the woman’s baby is coated in a sticky smear of lollipop juice and even the sun begins to smell like rancid saliva.

The mother has the word “Enlightened” tattooed on her leg. I suddenly think of how bad I want to be in India. Istanbul. Singapore.

Anywhere but here.

The far east! Where God walks on the ground, and does not hide in the clouds…

A cactus on the side of the road suddenly reminds me of the surreal language of heaven’s imagination.

The deep litter snickers. A million cigarette butts roll down the street. It is Tuesday morning,

I am on the bus. I think of the murderer’s I have known. How many? One? Two? Three? A dozen or more! I begin to wonder about my own decision making skills.

My eyes swell up in tears. I have to check myself. I am in the labyrinth of hell. The starlight is full of UFO’s. I remember my childhood. MY glorious youth amongst the virgins and the whores of teenage lust and love.

Ah. To paraphrase Rimbaud: “Once my life was a banquet where all wines flowed…”

Now; all day long I am insane with self doubt. Loathing of humanity. Fire in the soul\’85

My headphones screech with a rock star singing about the murder of sexual innocence. A commercial comes on with comedians lacing their humor with references to their own sexual prowess.

The bus rolls on. My teeth are like boomerangs. The language of God writes itself under my skin.

The apartment building where I used to smoke marijuana with gangsters is abandoned. The street is full of people seeking the next twenty dollars to alleviate their own suffering.

Crackhouse ghetto mobiles crash by, perfumed with disorder, disease. Carbon monoxide melts into tears of coffee on the roadside.

The sky is the color of blueberry pie… At least we have that! I am hallucinating a series of strange airplanes

In the sky. It is apparent to the paranoid elite— the invasion has begun. Every fifteen minutes a new wave of invaders—-

Some disguised as humans— others masquerading as dragonflies— others as stray animals; infiltrates human consciousness with divine fury.

Two planes are flying in strange formation through the morning sky. It is a warning. A sign.

They’re out of their own control & no longer realize it.


Songbird of Hades, spirited in plutonic vapors;

her time controlling adrenalin trickles down a windowpane on the day of all Saints, swelling the heart of the Eerie Sisters, whose souls nurse the criminal of love.

The smile of God flowers in the herpes-signal on a chameleon’s mouth. Her lips are cracked and oozing impossible vowels.
Word by word, she absorbs the blasphemy of the joys of premature death!

Journalists sniff her ass in the garden of pornography and blood.

She unfolds like a violent carnation bathed in tears of a wise old fool in a skull cap.

Someone —- the perpetual thief of memory, seized by the lie — murders the clown of Summer with cankerous ripples of laughter, her voice spinning like a knife in the abdomen of love.

Madly, her aquamarine giggles twirl as if controlled by Pan from a distance of nine negative millimeters.

Interior: a light bulb winks like the Minotaurs brain. I call the night down, catching hopeless inflamations of microbes of her stupendous disease.

Gently, She impales the poetic manifesto of the Moment on my unsudden flesh, twisting each amino acid into organic sheathed caskets with polarized membranes.

Sacrilege blesses the pagan ecstasy of the bluebonnets snuggled along the Museum pathways.

I die into her emptiness.

A confidante rescues my name from the bonfire of artificial delirium. Philosophy vomits in the void.

One by one, the secrets exhale through the bones of the archetypal Genius; he works in testicle colored lightning, She makes love to God in a syzygy of hearts and cancer shaped trapezoids.

The nightingale walks into a cavern of ears. It’s song is ferocious, the antidote to foolishness. The earthworm’s bellies make the world tremble in gentle earthquakes of dissonance.

One! Two! Three! Coos from the doves explode like embers of light down a deer’s eyes.

A trickling harmony of urgent wavelengths seeks their own name in the underworld!

Dawn opens it’s chemical locks. The song has escaped her mouth; victorious clouds perfume the sky

with the paradox of a dark morbid joy!

the Congo dreams a moonshine of Blue Notes Weeping like Yahweh’s heart

Cleave a stone, and deep inside the honeycomb of yawning Shekinah — silence writes the world in an atomic signature of Andromedan flesh scarabs.

The atoms split, the forest of pines trembles in Frankenstein’s ear.
Lightning strikes the Congo like a Monastic werewolf smile.

She cures the world with her lover’s drugs. Angel guitars slice the world into blue notes.

Her tongue hangs the Egyptian prisoners in a hieroglyphic cartoon. Osiris body is a wedding cake.

Death row glows with naughty children cloaked in razors and blood. They are the astronauts of destroyed salvation, never to see the planet of freedom and love again.

Deep in absolute Hell, all motion has ceased. Canaries swirl like hurricanes frozen in Satan’s mouth.

The time machine is hidden in Lucifer’s DNA. The ghost of God explains the true negativity in

symbols of light and laughter. A jeweled monkey shines it’s face into a jungle the size of Manhattan.

From inner space, it is obvious: the earth is an albino mule’s eye on the edge of a void named Buddha’s love.

Surgeons race by like Buddha’s of Slapstick. Razors rain. Omega Omens gather in puzzles of ominous motion.

In the winter streets, a skeleton faced dandelion dances on diamonds. A black hat floats into a merciless smile.

The young woman weeps for the King of the Graveyard. His heart is a mechanical crucifix.

She disassembled her bones and shaped her flesh into the riddle of Charlie Chaplin.

Together, they built the Apocalypse clock. The clock detonates in endless insanity.

A schizophrenic Jesus leapt from eye to eye of the gathering dust storm of eternity ;ike a transcendental lemur in an Elvis cartoon.

Her mouth is full of priest eggs. I hear the shadow of love howling toothless in the bathroom mirror.

The only thing left to do is sing, sing forever.

And in Michelangelo’s delirium, an ochre tinted paintbrush is whispering the face of God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for God’s love ad infinitum.

Our brains have fermented and time drips like holy water down the stalactites of heaven.

Vowels of Brahma billowed in her virginal mouth, heaving like the breasts of hermaphroditic UFO’s.

Calibrating Hiroshima in her shadow burnt against the aquarium glass, She died a thousand deaths.

She does cartwheels into her Father’s grave. Her soul is a sexually transmitted disease.

I elope with God into a honeymoon of fear. We eat omens. Bread dances on my open wound.

Jesus Christ bathes in cyanide while Krishna laughs in the Moonlight. I become insane with wisdom.

Imaginary beings glow like UFO’s as her vagina explodes in starlight.

The fire in your testicles burns cities into hives of newborn seraphim.

An ancient promise hung itself in his voice.

Sutra by sutra, the citizens stitch the wounds of Satan’s Mother with their pitiless rumor of love.

Exploding devils made love to white hot ghost gods on Tuesday in the park.

Rotating visions escaped the prison of Charlie Manson’s cunt.

Eyes licked eyes like Van Gogh painting the starlight on a whore’s ass.

Time sings a song of ancient spellbound paranoia.

In the silver tinted bowels of his mirrored face, She found a flood of fish kings hooked by the mouth,

tap dancing on the seven waves of oaken curvatures of the dream God’s stomach.

Her fingers were like bombastic dolphins, bursting out along the infrared seam of the sky;

And as She tricked the fractal embryos from the hearth of her womb,

Moments of stochastic moments recursed into their own strange attractors, the way a blind child dreams of his Mother’s face;

Wildly innocent, God bombing God with God’s love into fields of God’s sorrow as rainclouds sought their original face in

the blueness of the unknowable Universe.

He tap-danced gently across her porcelain tongue. She felt the stars whisper in her capillaries.

Together, they flew; fleet footed, fast flying, freedom seeking, into the Street of the Ancient Comedy.

Philosophy itself was born in her speeches. She was lucid, like a strange devil dialoguing the madness of her Mother throughout gestation.

She wept. A skyscraper fell towards the edge of the universe.

The American night hatched in steel and glass memories. Her architect approached in a carriage of glistening rainbows.

Nature turned it’s eye inward at the glance of their paranoid masks.

As their feet licked the cobblestones, their bodies became hooved, winged, like horses on the edge

Of a street forged by the fists and feet of dead men fallen from history’s blood stained vine.

Shock of springtime bubbling in her unfolded toes. A flaming candelabra of innocence, spilling it’s wisdom into the muddy earth. She dives into the pussywillow pool, remembering shyly a beautiful gasp in the chill of an icicle tricked wintery hearth.

Matchsticks align in her consciousness. A flame erupts inside the tadpoles heart. The pond is full of toads and trout that know no boundaries.

Mouths of strange fish open toward faces not made to be seen.

Inside the ear of a dream amphibian, the universe shapes itself into lichens and spores. Mushrooms grow like strange moustaches on men whose eyes are the color of the forest floor.

There, in the emerald jaundice of eternity, a baby girl is sleeping in a crib. She is a thousand years old. The magicians have named her Salvation. As the earth rolls around on it’s axis, her heart begins to beat out the names of extinct flamingoes and summery wild architectures of love.

Springtime scrawls a new word on the door of heaven.

The door to the Universe opens in a strange unquiet symphony of openings. One trillion years elapses in the perfect curl of a dopamine and serotonin wave.

Starlight inflames the heat shield face of a time bent series of serpents and seals. The ocean ripples like the love bed of the Gods. A dozen roses make love in a clown’s heart.

She walks towards the falling tree. The branches are blessed by the names of her ancestors. A funeral erupts amongst the acorns and pomengranites.

Life has tricked death into insignificance. The reaper of souls flares his temple out in a grand spiral of escalating fury.

War by war, eternity balances on the flesh of dead children. Iterations of futility seek a name amongst the gathered star feathered silences.

The heart of man explodes in blue nautilus. Eyes leap from cheek to cheek. Weathered sailors persevere through the dance of the Thirteen Constellations of Christ.

A comedian laughs at his own death. Something has turned the world into a furious parade of angels.

Her footsteps strike the ground like porcelain hammers, turning the earth into an eardrum of echoes that know no here and now.

A series of prismatic astral proteins of embryonic memories sings the Glory of the Goddess through the face of a knotted pine on a wintery street where mankind has drawn it’s face in a series of billboards advertising the devil’s primal heartache.

The rain is like a jester’s tears. The King has abdicated it’s sanity. The word “No” spins out of control as a the theory of the artificial revolution spills through her eyes at the breakfast table.

A vagabond stirs his coffee in a convenience store full of dead parrots. It is dawn.

I have entered the probability field of your unconscious memory.

My skin is perfect down to the quark of it’s final essential isolation.

Nobody has yet noticed the dream crawling down Broadway. It is chasing a nightmare through the Village of Astrological Rumors.

Cassiopeia. Andromeda. Cygnus, the Swan.

Each system of transformation boils with a fever of atomic questioning.

God is seeking God. God is searching the Universe for God’s own presence.

And the stars choose neutrons to elope into the gauntlet of time.

A fool’s pyramid self organizes through the fingertips of a Pharoah on the edge of the mirror of dinosaur semen.

The Nile River floods the infancy of the human brain, making God holy again.

A sacred lie is completed in a circling of acrobatic dalliances with the mysteries of heaven.

Gyroscopes harbor gravity of googolplex scintilla.

Cathedrals of strange men, descending a staircase, throw their skulls into the bloody thorns waiting in the Hell of his own dream.

The piper of love becomes a shallow faced bird.

It swallows the sacrilege of her unpainted uterus.

Eternity seizes in a synergy— the jewel of her unbroken heart pulses like uranium in the mouth of a mechanical flower.

Everyone begins to dream in perfect unbridled synchronicity.

Seven billion human hearts begin to beat in perfect rhythm.

Civilizations rise like sea foam on the shores of psychedelic planetoids.

I orbit myself in an unborn shadow of holiness.

You remember nothing.

One by one the cockroaches of love enter a strange wilderness forged by a blacksmith from the fiery spent tragedy of vagabond bones.

The world trembles. The black cat is born in static. The dancers unite in an orgy of motion.

Laughter breaks out in the Apocalypse room.

Everyone begins to understand that nothing can be understood.

A wild mathematics of trembling skulls knotted love inside the womb-fire of Heaven, paused like a dead God on the windswept edge of eternal rebirth.

And laughter exhaled.

The uncreated the ghost of time bloomed unceasing.

The languid urge of a lunar bloom whirling in the skeleton earth of the musical fingers of self organizing energy worlds, drawn by God in wiccan circles of leaves curled by nameless whispers and proteins beaded and whispering a dream seduction, swept from Lilith’s womb through the ghost of Civilization’s bowels.

The future child — a chimera floating in the sex of Adam and Eve, who pollinated the earth with a tribe of Africanized neutrinos,

and was alive,liquid and hysterical with the living

jewels of a dead God’s love, sparkling with the facets of the earth’s last gasping cobra mouth

flickering in a storm of perfect coincidence

above the Earth where the roots of civilization

were strangling off in a desperate denouement

of paralysis and torpor; She, the Goddess of the

Fulcrum of Love, had broken a poet’s heart, and for a trillion instantaneous simultaneities,

the triple faced eyes of the moon mermaids

wept the pagan melodies, greek myths, until Gondwanaland began crawling with fairy queens,

bioluminescent skin of American fantasies bursting with rivers of light

And as each dream death explains, in her eyes, the dark soil of time had gone fallow.

The mad babble of stories spilling from the mouth of mankind –

ignited like poppy smoke in the throat

of summer’s deep blue dolphin eyed angels.

And the machines died.

Electricity disappeared. The automobiles rusted in cancer and doubt.

The smokestacks burnt flesh of eternal orphans.

Old men wept trances of mathematical data. Machine guns raped the flesh of the world.

Civilization was born in the eye of a hurricane force of blasphemy

A dead god’s self loathing lie,

balanced in the space above the Eternal City of an echo chamber brain,

warbling in

a neuro-virus flooded the earth and sent

humanity back into the divine geometrical urge;

Cerebellum after cerebellum emptied the dream of the Industrial Baphomet

jungles sang like Lucifer’s lungs

in the Green Heaven, a white bird swept it’s face toward the sun

She (the She that remained alive in the dustlike zephyr of

negative entropy) watched in fantasy as her lovers — the million and one— began to arrive like famous memories

into portraits of the dead men found swirling in the anti-Genesis of Hell.

And on the night her lovers began to echo

from void to void, She hung her body above the still burning

fire and disappeared into the first warped wavelength of the Judas doors.

Singing Christ into Christ,

after her soul exploded, her consciousness rained through the flesh of the earth for several dream engorged millennia.

Until, in the midnight of the Warbling Trill, a violin-tongued

Sufi magician, whose chromosomes replicated in the white heat of a dream

thirsty quasar, was locked by God in the breath of a desert fog.

The secret flame licked the terminal filaments of the scarlet exoskeleton. A Queen, obsessed with shadowy plays burnt on madmen’s tongues fluttered down like a feather in a poet’s scream.

Far down, like honey into a whirlpool, she flowed into the Vagabond’s ear. She became a single note in an infinite composition.

And as She lost her masculinity in a smile, He wrapped a shawl across the vagabonds heart, until in a cascade of harmonious surrender, the whole Universe turned and prayed the name of paradise towards the whispering breath of the dandelion heart of the stars of Aldebaraan.

A flowering mouth of winter minarets, the mosque of the human heart

grown alive by the dreamtime of love, speaking the name of Lucifer’s last Sparrow;

a triumvirate of spell bound bones formed the architectures of the wisdom factories of the last poem on Earth.


the geranium of night faces the Executioner of Dreams;
a perfume of music thunders under his skin. One by one the flames lick
the eye in a ballet of blindness. Caterwauls of hysteria erupt between
the lovers manifold of skin. A protein sings the Glory of Satan
through the face of a knotted pine. The pyramid elopes through the fingertips

of a Pharoah on the edge of Narcissus’ eye. The world is made again,
the lie is completed in a circling of acrobatic dalliances with the
mysteries of heaven

The Cathedral of Verbs spins in lightning brewed integers of bat saliva;

Eye into eye the ghost of the madman with no face, trips on the poisoned lightning bolts
that gathers the wind into curls of forgotten ecstasy. Speaks!

The dog faced knight drops salamander tongues into the eyes of dying magicians.

A carnival rotates on it’s Y-Axis. Nobody realizes what is happening. But it is too late.

The number line flowers with eyeless gravitational membranes.

The madman steps from the Void.

Ghastly nightshade clutches petals of perfect disillusionment,

casting it’s shadow towards the impenetrable ground underneath the Satyr’s feet.

One bird eye exhales a trillion stars. The stars inhale a trillion birds.

It is the salvation of the exponential crime;

a wilderness of civilized breakdowns, each orchid flaming

the green speech of time gathering words.

Tidal waves of imaginary beings sweep in the serotonin oceans.

The Cathedral of Verbs ignites

in perfect jeweled compassion.

Lao Tzu, Houdini, the ghost of an Unborn Child deliver sermons from

deep inside the blade of grass.

A flowering pinecone speaks towards it’s unmet mother from deep inside it’s own heart

It is the wisdom of eunoia, the bumblebee’s God singing Rumi through the

mouth of the summer rose.

Radioactive nuclei light the candlewick eyes of the albatross.

A forbidden moment rises towards the stratosphere.

The lions mouth is full of wet flesh.

The century is a flame of the liquidity of Orphan’s tears. Her face is a tragic mask of misunderstanding.

Moment by moment, his heart blows blue glass into cruciform phantoms whose faces roll in the sand towards the dawn of civilization.

A crucifix haunts the November sky. In the dream War, the phantoms have cast spells of deliverance.

My brain is swollen with the embryo of creation. I watch television to calm the wounds of history.

A strange man arrives in a hearse filled with diamonds and wine.

Salvation is perpetual, a wound with no limit.

The Girl is nowhere to be seen. This is the science of the ultimate disaster. The wisdom of the Serpent’s upside down mouth.

The chrysalis unwraps it’s invisible heart, leaving the world empty of suffering.

An old man converses with the King of Dead Hell. It is a normal Friday, somewhere in the World between Worlds.

The salt rains into pools of sparrow flesh. A cricket appears on the edge of my cup.

The Vagabond charms the clouds toward the ocean, one by one, his delirious whims are made sane.

Money struts by in a stainless steel negligee.

Wood faced poets suck the heart of wild heaven dead with the romance of nihilism.

A flame of unsung psalms burns in the particle accelerator of her heart.

As the quarks dissolve into the ghost of God, her voice moves like teardrops through a seagull’s eye.

Night into night, multiplying by infinity, her skin becomes fruitlike. Her lips

drop down through jungles of ecstasy. She takes to the street in a cage of bones, lighting matches

on mailboxes as another failed Messiah stumbles towards her in a raging mirage of an ageless game.

It is a shadowy surge of disbelief that leads him towards her. He knows no other love.

Just her eyes, rolling with ataxia until all that is real is the starlight flooding the world from deep inside the wishing well of her gap toothed smile.

He and she. She and he. The two strangers balanced in the belief of darkness. A purple sheen of whispering brilliance. Golden eyes. Two blood drunk hearts that collide like magician’s memories.

It is an insane whirlpool, dancing in the summer midnight rain. The heat explains it’s mystery in corpuscles of steam and mist.

An Aztec God explodes from the fingers of a pinecone.

She falls up. Far beyond the inviolable void. Up into the sky, after death has dissolved all her fleshy mysteries; she falls.

Harlequin nebulae fever with wanderlust through her probability field. A lone cherubim tricks the unimagineable God into laughter.

Recombining molecule into the dark scarlet fantasia of a neuronal flash; the diamond scintilla of Aristotle’s spirit burns it’s final energies deep in the folded flesh of the poet’s eyes. A series of wires slipped around my neck. I began to sense the extraordinary explosions of blood and magic in the dirt underneath my fingernails.

A saxophone, a drum. The wind howling inside my cheekbones.

Earth became the dream of the Zombie whose face was a mutating love poem.

Doppelgangers carved by high energy gamma rays slit the wrists of the girl whose face could not be seen. One by one, from inside the terror chambers, the human judges decayed like protons in an angel’s eye.

The courthouse was being built from human bones. Tarantulas sang of their virginal mothers.

Deep in it’s bowels, the labyrinth of mystery shifted the eyes of the dead embedded in the walls.

A woman with the face of a lamb twirled her umbrella as if the fire of God converting her flesh into puzzles of horror was all just an intricate movie.

Shadows fucked the sky into unbearable beauty. The eyes of the Poet opened like caterpillar hearts.

I ate liquid embryos, like the ghosts of rain. It’s all alive, I said. Everything.

I exploded into fragments of a blue whale. My song echoed in the movements of plankton toward the surface of the sea.

It was a fantasy of eternal damnation. Perpetual salvation.

Transcendental mystery. It moved like a thundercloud melting under my skin.

And the pawns of Lucifer arrived, their hearts nailed by hammers of doubt. Light oozed from their open wounds.

I could sense the Courthouse waking in their bones. I saw blind comedians mocking the visions of dead men.

I tasted wisdom from a bumblebee’s throat. I licked the brains of star gathering apes on the way to Hades in search of the Goddess of Memory.

The woman began to understand. She slipped her fingers into her soul and began twirling.

One shadow. Two hearts. Three doors. Four wisdoms. Five terrors.

The doppelganger opened it’s heart to the desire of the machine. Animal and machine began fucking on the Neptunian moon.

One thousand electronic hyenas, each laced with psychedelic perfumes, infiltrated the Courthouse chambers.

The labyrinth of God’s delusion was made holy and sacred. Nobody would ever leave alive.

It is the Museum of hell, she cried with a broken tongue; the heart combines it’s suffering with blood; and she rushes towards the edge of the cavern with a distorted pulse in her heart. A single beat that lasts forever. No change for a trillion trillion years. Just a sickening thud.

And then She dissolved in a burst of white noise, her skin reflecting the kaleidoscopic refuge of Lord Buddha-Christ in it’s pearly blue depths. Pearls like shark tears. Pearls like seahorse memories.

And the ocean whispered, a sonic burst of the ultrasonic bass that taught the sky to be blue.

I, trapped in the glass of the Museum, surrendered a trillion strange moments to the wisdom machine.

She listened with the ear of a runaway vine, each petal trembling with oscillations of love and beauty.

Our tongues became one, finally resisting the boundary urge. We spoke like strange puppets, animated only by silence and the whim of a madman on the edge of the anti particles of the phenomenological void.

Then, it happened; a series of Unicorn woke from the liquidity of the Netherworld. A symphony of atomic swarming messiah eyes flew in discord towards the Unicorn’s soul. The Unicorn’s brain shot golden fantasies through it’s horn; a thousand wicked fairies chased each other into the soup of the void.

And then She arrived in a hearse. Wearing the face of the inevitable Godot, singing the world into sleep as she walked.

One by one, the creatures of the eternal ether slipped into mortal slumber as her footsteps tripped gaily on the gossamer earth.

Soon, the creatures of the world were locked in the perfection of sleep. They ate the memories of tulips. They drank the antimatter ocean. They loved each other through the connectivity of a dark and brilliant dream with a trillion episodes.

They would never need to wake again. The Queen of Unasked Questions had arrived.

And as her DNA whispered parables of future heresies of Skin and wisdom from cell to cell, the Cosmos unlocked it’s fiery tapestry of weirdness and placed a golden turtle at the foot of the gravity throne.

He, the Queen of the Unknowable World, just beyond the Wilderness of Endless Wind, flew into a rage full of enchanted atmospheres.

each feathered Eye, gifted with the poems of Quetzlcoatl, crawled towards Bethlehem, footsteps each a stranger color than the next.

She wanted the City to Rise on Cubist Death Engines. And it rose like a geometry of Undying Platonic fantasies.

Mists. Vapors. Excitements and fevers. Delirious escapades of stainless steel cockroaches.

A parade full of robots and clones. Women leaking eyeshadow from purple lips shaped like undead tomatoes.

Masquerades of western extraterrestrials laughing in languages that nobody understood.

The Eye of the Archaeopteryx puzzled the world with it’s moonless turbulence. It hung in the air and sang of the tribulations of unborn women for seven thousand years,

Her bloody heart, swollen like Lucifer’s gonads, began allowing flood after flood to break on eternity’s shore.

Wisdom cloaked itself in the raiment of fools. A thousand pelicans gave birth to a single raindrop colored tear.

IT was the day before the day after yesterday.

A green hearted poem churned in the depths of the sacred computer.

One night, a gangster’s wife awoke to find her baby child dead, pierced in the skull by a bullet the color of moon rocks.

Like every other previous day, it was technically the saddest day in all of history.

She screamed until ten million incarnations of her immortal soul died. And the deaths never quit happening. A cascade of ghastly admonitions, each one sicker and stranger than the next, like neurons jumping into the Bermuda triangle on Easter Sunday, delivered the world into twelve plagues of hysteria and immaculate sadness.

Nothing was worth saving anymore. The death of one child created an eternal hell.

She heard the television’s ghastly whisper: “One dollar is all it takes to purchase the Kingdom of Heaven! But do you have two? And which dollar is it? Can we have another?”

Someone threw another baby in a trash can that night. Earth was balanced in a demonic tilt. Gamma ray bursts were licking the brains with the furious calm of a starving predator, each one stranger and more calm than the next.

She sang: Zen Zen Zen. Marlon Brando in Chinatown

Rigor mortis of the sky. The Inquisition butterflies drop in parachutes

Into the Pentagon of my purgatorial Soul. I am paranoid like Marlon Brando

The day before he met his mother.

Zen. Zen. Zen. She sang: Move like water drinking rain. You are not ready. But I will tell you everything anyway.

The Baphomet has assumed the position and the Lord of the Flies charges admission

Into the Eden of your disbelieving mystery. You ruined everything with your disobedience

You bought the lie then sold it back to politicians without souls

To preserve the wound of Christ as a paradox of love, you gave birth to an imperfect God.

You want me to explain that to the platonic vapors of the future?

I am lost inside this phantom mask,

Infected with the morbidity of judgment. The calculus of some invisible Nazi mathematician

Lurks like an executioner two atoms away from the city of unborn rainbows.

And now, the firing squad is aiming. Their hammers swing like a symphony.

They do not imagine they are divine. They do not pretend to care.

They have forgotten their own faces. The moment they were born, the Universe died.

This is the hour of beauty. The day the dead God, dying in the dream soil, the brain of the universe, illuminated the bioluminescent fireflies.

It is the ghost poem of the supernova wilderness of complete insanity.

And love masks it’s face in hurricanes of terror balanced on raindrops of rumor.

Superstitions. Lies. Fables. Myths. The philosophy of no philosophy.

The story ends with their mouths clamping shut on a cobra skin tourniquet.

They talk in terms of Bibles. Salvation.

Following Orders. You haven’t earned it yet.

If we told you, we’d have to kill you.

Money talks. You are no Gandhi. You don’t even know the nickel defense

Or how to calibrate a piston

I gave you this Freedom and I can take it away, too.

They move like bacteria in the company of thieves.

Shapeshifting doppelganger Frankenstein robot golems.

Invisible sex magic billionaires commandeering lesser men into the asylum of death on the summer street.

What do they not know?

They have affiliations with the constellations; Networks of semen powered ghetto crack lords.

They extract ghastly confessions

From the brains of dream burnt children of wild hamburgers

Who inherit diabetes while killing photons on a video screen

We, the martyrs of our stupidity,

wish only to fuck like orphaned lunatics in the dungeon of God’s eye.

Everyone’s throats are coated in whiskey. Our eyes explode with LSD.

Our hearts burst with biblical fevers. We disbelieve everything.

Will the real antichrist please stand up?

Is there a messiah in the house?

At what speed are we racing towards the Godhead?

When will I get the keys to the fucking UFO?


I hear them. They are the supercomputing supercomputers

Alive in the Technicolor sky. They control control.

They are forced into choosing our lives for us.

And even after we are embalmed

By guilt and shame and wicked suicidal sorrow,

We remember the past as a series of insufferable wounds

And we laugh. Jean Paul Sartre in a chicken suit in Manhattan.

It is a comedy of love that ends the day you are born.

The present is a crucified atheist screaming whispers into the ears

Of his undead Father, who like Hamlet’s ghost,

Says nothing that we don’t already know.


Dawn paints itself innocent in an infinitely complex orgasm.

The birds fall towards the sun.

Skyscrapers rise like tombstones toward the stars

Always, she said: the ourobouros of meaningless love

Will power your soul towards the ocean

Where clouds are Connecting the dots of Taoist rhythms

And the rocks are swooning with prophecies like green tongued violinist

Lost like a cloud of ones and zeros drifting in some

Unrecognizable heaven

inside the human eye.

Until, like a school of fish walking from deep inside the stained glass of the Saints heart, she swam.

Her scream lifted Gods eyelid across the dawn.

Magicians of light scrawled death hieroglyphs in the fleshy mirage of sexless angels, their eyes composed by the Ego of God in the great thermodynamic dream of perpetual salvation.

Like the Saint, in the Absence of Sinners, the Girl with No Face pirouettes in a prism of unearthly symbols;

and in her crown, the shattered sun unlocks the wilderness of photons underneath the unborn God’s skin.

The jeweled bride, her face a broken wineglass, ignites the Sea of Mystery in a flood of dissonant verbs.

Her heart, a trillion light years deep is lost in the animalian whirlwind.

A fleshy whisper of flamingos explodes into mandalas of unreal laughter. Eye dies into Eye.

Strange lines, circles, spheres, gather at the vortex of an African dreamscape.

The girl with no face enters the haunted manuscript, one footstep at a time.

Flowery pilgrims plant seeds in the conductors mouth. The galaxy exists like the memory of Christ, a triumphant overture of an infinity of mysteries.

Pages of pagan flame float down from windowsills balanced in Lucifer’s starry cavern.

My eyes bleed a hurricane of wicked sunsets, dappled by the freckles of Saint Agnes drooping soul.

Heaven turns it’s face toward earth.

The heartache of love; dreams burnt the harlequin’s face with widow’s eyes.

Strange memories of the life they never had turned the flames inside out. One by one the Girl with No Face

Became a trillion flocks of birds, swarming in philosophies of drought that made the children of God pray.


The word, lost in a sway of potentiality, inverted the song of the cosmos. A binary Taoist afterthought— itself a negation of a negation, blooming in spirals toward a still point of two photons balanced on the fingertips of God, conjoined the real with the Unreal.

Each harmony, quavering in solitude of heresy, convulses in the Girl’s heart.

A knot of magic! A loop of Void! A parable of Silence! The whim of Eternity?

Fringe of scarlet petals waning in the eyelids of a moon faced girl lying naked on grass of the park.

Her name was primitive Wilderness. She was chained to a tree coated in carbon monoxide.

Reggae music lifted the wind into curious roils of convective melodies of light.

Her feet were like the pads of a satellite. They were built by magicians of the first Mirage.

Magicians of light scrawled death hieroglyphs in the fleshy mirage of sexless angels, their eyes composed by the Ego of God in the great thermodynamic dream of perpetual salvation.

Like the Saint, in the Absence of Sinners, the Girl with No Face pirouettes in a prism of unearthly symbols;

and in her crown, the shattered sun unlocks the wilderness of photons underneath the unborn God’s skin.

The jeweled bride, her face a broken wineglass, ignites the Sea of Mystery in a flood of dissonant verbs.

Her heart, a trillion light years deep is lost in the animalian whirlwind.

A fleshy whisper of flamingos explodes into mandalas of unreal laughter. Eye dies into Eye.

Strange lines, circles, spheres, gather at the vortex of an African dreamscape.

The girl with no face enters the haunted manuscript, one footstep at a time.

Flowery pilgrims plant seeds in the conductors mouth. The galaxy exists like the memory of Christ, a triumphant overture of an infinity of mysteries.

Pages of pagan flame float down from windowsills balanced in Lucifer’s starry cavern.

My eyes bleed a hurricane of wicked sunsets, dappled by the freckles of Saint Agnes drooping soul.

Heaven turns it’s face toward earth.

The heartache of love; dreams burnt the harlequin’s face with widow’s eyes.

Strange memories of the life they never had turned the flames inside out. One by one the Girl with No Face

Became a trillion flocks of birds, swarming in philosophies of drought that made the children of God pray.


The word, lost in a sway of potentiality, inverted the song of the cosmos. A binary Taoist afterthought— itself a negation of a negation, blooming in spirals toward a still point of two photons balanced on the fingertips of God, conjoined the real with the Unreal.

Each harmony, quavering in solitude of heresy, convulses in the Girl’s heart.

A knot of magic! A loop of Void! A parable of Silence! The whim of Eternity?

Fringe of scarlet petals waning in the eyelids of a moon faced girl lying naked on grass of the park.

Her name was primitive Wilderness. She was chained to a tree coated in carbon monoxide.

Reggae music lifted the wind into curious roils of convective melodies of light.

Her feet were like the pads of a satellite. They were built by magicians of the first Mirage.

Somewhere in the Serengeti, a nightmare growled in Beethoven’s heart.

Swiftly, the quasar raped the lion’s heart. A beam of blackness struck chords of entropy under the soldier’s fingernails.

And the war began on Channel 37. A series of strangely timed laughs ignited the flame of fear in an Ambassadors heart.

Heaven’s infinite World smashed fists of tyranny in the Congo, like the drums of Solomon’s pulse.

A blue whirlwind wounded the belly white sky, lifting planetary membranes towards a Sun not made for knowing.

You people don’t know what you’re doing, the homeless man said.

A thundering echo smashed a single canary into the window of a building named after the last Conquistador.

The canary fell to the sidewalk and was immediately torn to shreds by the sleeping daisies.

And they woke; eyes grappling with memory and futures.

His arm coiled like snakes around her abdomen. Yes, she was Dead. Yes, he was dying.

He had, in fact, perhaps twenty three seconds of life left in his body. She’d been dead for twenty nine minutes.

Bullet holes were laced throughout the room like the eyes of a schizoid Cyclops.

And in that curling turmoil of death and sensuality, ribbons of flesh linked into a nightmare of bone,

and rainbow shaped molecules bore witness to the darkness lurking in the jazz of their sudden fevered birth,

until a scarlet membrane of God’s Christlike mouth exhaled phantoms of the green speech,

tricking the wise men (beak by beak, like the flame of coincidence spinning in the eyes of the dead)

into an audience full of dying nightingales where, like a clock,

buried in the coiled serpentine valentine of perfect silence, She woke in the middle of the Madman’s prayer.

His voice was a vision of ultraviolet fog. Pouring from his mouth, it rose like the call of an eagle, carving starlight into her prison cell, on the outskirts of Hell where nobody came.

And her eyes were like rubies dripping blood in the snowy dark wilderness of love.

The sense of her beauty was like a glass blown teardrop lost in the eye of an invisible hurricane.

She moved through moonbeams, tracing fractals on a shark’s skin.

An invisible inhalation of total mystery. Annihilation of the consensual world.

Her face, starlight manufacturing God’s tragic bliss.

And as the men gathered on the street where her corpse was shining with preternatural whiteness, a strange plume of smoke rose above the street and everyone momentarily forgot she was dead.

She herself never suspected as much. The moment she disappeared from the Universe, her skin slipped into a meaningless puzzle.

Her spirit; her flesh, however, rose into the night on a wing.

Some would swear in disembodied whispers that they later saw the sunlight changing color the day her spirit churned the sky of their eyes into tragic membranes of sorrow.

But it was then — the moment she died — She began to fall in love with her voice floating above the wintery trees, each syllable seemingly causing the stars to ripple like the eyes of birds trapped in the light of a world in a strange slow motion strobe.

North and south, the sky unwound. Midnight clocked a cesium parable.

Mid flight, She called my name from a thousand whispers away. I entered the dread unknown, fled like Errol Flynn into the dark village of misfits and clowns with triangular souls.

The great Houdini appeared in the sky, his face flooding the night with a smile bent by wisdom and suffering.

The magician spoke our names from across the ocean floor and as the nightmare of inconstant lovers spilled like cancer into the burnt auburn midnight, the embryo of her spirit lifted from deep inside the dungeon palace of her brain.

I felt an earthquake of disbelief plunder my skin of it’s wisdom.

Atom by atom, my very flesh, my consciousness, the sum of my being, exploded like a fireworks into the constellations of my birth.

Star by star, the strange flowers turned towards my flesh in a helio-tropic fantasy. I seized the root of calculation. I danced without skin amidst the stony graves.

I became the moon, and lifted my ear toward the heaven of silence.

For several thousand years, as I lay dying, satellites flooded the world with memories of the first garden.

As for the stars? They never heard my prayer; the stars themselves never learned of the prayer for the resurrection of the life of the woman I loved.

I loved her. I loved her the way the sky loves the wind.

Three weeks after her twenty sixth birthday, she looked into the mirror and the entire scene exploded in a deep purplish red glow.

Her face swelled up in a rainbow; her tongue crawled out of her mouth and began licking the mirror as if it was an open wound.

She suddenly realized she was in fact, a wild cat faced – Tomato. A genetic cross between a siamese cat and a hothouse cube.

This occured to her just as she finished reading the book of Revelations.

SOmetimes life happens like that. People wake up, and the world is a foreign country. A place with no place.

She fell to the floor and began praying for God to never let anyone pluck her.

She spent twelve days crawling around on the floor. Looking for scissors to cut herself off of the vine.

Her schizoid fantasies about the Policemen revolved around the fact that they were actually black wasps.

To her, they had eyes like rabid german shepards.

If they plucked her, she knew, they’d prick with electroshock stingers. Handcuffs like alien chastity belts. Probably wearing cockrings and strange devil head tattoos underneath their whitey tighteys. Guns that would make Stalin blanche. And who knows what else?

Needles full of venom to quell the Baphomet.

For twelve days, she wandered the streets of heaven in perpetual orgasm.

Her eyes glowed like incandescent ghosts. Her mouth was a train tunnel.

On the thirteenth day, she fell in love with a lesbian punk rock girl at the bus stop. She fell to the grass and began to sing like a snake. Her skin was coated in manifestations of the first legend:

The day the ocean created the eye! The day the sunlight saw itself! The day the blindness died!

And then, that same night she became a tomato,

God called her name from inside the television. God refracted. God listened to her vulva moaning as if it was flooded with perfume. God stole her name and gave it back. God drove her home in a black Cadillac, as she lip synched the name he gave her two years before she died to the Sphinx.

She changed the channel of the Universe. Suddenly, she felt the ideology of the Sphinx decoding the riddle of her flesh.

Word by word, her skin unlocked itself. Her bones wrote poems for madmen named after dogs.

A flock of birds flew from inside her uterus, infecting the sky with their vaginal delirium.

And it was good. She sang. She laughed. From inside the cornstalks, the ghpost of Houdini threw a rich tapestry of synchronicity onto a prayer shawl of her immortal soul. She watched a prayer transmute itself from

the mouth of a beggar. A silver coin appeared inside her eyeball. Her Father became a Praying Mantis cloaked in a Wizards’ robe

on Thanksgiving. His eyes were black machines, made holy by their absence of light.

Machine gods lighted Kundalini wicks in her fingertips.

The night she listened to the sound of the Universe making love to itself was charged with a churning chasm of numerological bliss.

She felt her fingers slip into the tarantulas heart. Her lips slipped like a boomerang around a flaming corpse.

She became a tomato. She died and resurrected a trillion times, each moment believing she was living in a dream garden inside her Father’s favorite shoebox.

And as the fire of heaven swept through the corpuscles of her tomato-soul,

The language of the sleeping fire hyacinths amongst the water lilies in God’s abdomen ignited like laughter in the ears of a newborn child.

Down in the time flooded gardens of consciousness, the New s was running wild with florid atomic probability angels.

Each clown faced version of God, disguised as thunder clouds bursting with angel poems, orbited her eyes like dreams forged on the anvil of Lucifer’s skull.

As it rained quadratic equations, the rumor of the hyacinth leapt from lip to lip in a dizzying tumble of neurons burning with shadows of Einstein’s zeitgeist.

Estrangement circled the coffee house the moment they walked in. Eye after eye rotated in eye sockets of wildly uncontrollable movements; it was like being in a jungle during an explosion of phosphorescent leopard spots.

Pablo Neruda turned the key on his tombstone. Beethoven slipped through the soil of his grave.

The afterlife had begun, the moment Houdini beat the Devil in a game of Chess.

Nightshade curled around Solomon’s unfinished temple. The Sea of Galilee became a mirror of Christ’s opened eyes. DNA launched rockets of flesh towards moons not made to be seen.

And deep inside midnight’s trembling vortex, as the black hole of God sucked spirit towards a deep Omega triumph of apocalyptic inversions, the Unicorns of Eden began to manifest in ribbons of starlight that connected the names of immortal faeries.

Hyacinth, blueberry, black widow, clover began to crawl towards heaven on thorns and petals of lotus blossom and coincidence through the crushed dust of dinosaur bones in movements of music unheard of by mammalian ears.

The human soul twirled in a swastika around the open wound of time’s self organizing machine bloom.

She sipped her coffee and eyed the freckles of a stranger from across an empty room.

Oscillations of God trembled like sparrow’s eyes deep inside her nine hundred and twenty three freckles. As the universe flew through a bumblebee’s shadow, She turned the sunlight into a puzzle on the city street.

The sunlight laughed, and burst into hieroglyphics. Isis, Osiris, Set flew down the summer street.

The memory of the night before God inhaled a prophetic wind from deep on the banks of the Nile.

Windowpanes burst open like the eyes of a scarlet memory. The leviathan sang an earthquake. Her flesh flickered with memory.

In one fell swoop, she turned the paper cup in her left hand into a Spanish nightingale and sent it flying towards the eyes of the woman planting flowers on the third floor.

The woman herself, a genetic replication of a mysterious chameleon skinned Wiccan, was somehow stung by a wandering bumblebee, and slipped from the window and fell to her death and instantaneous rebirth on the city streets.

Her body collided with the sidewalk in a horrific shriek of animalian deathwish.

An ancient secret passed from her eyes on the way down. In that last final moment, She knew.

Something was listening. Something was watching. Some great spirit was moving through the maelstrom windowpane of the human flesh.

Her left eye began twitching. She began to feel vastly paranoid. Her mouth turned into a gaping hole full of dwarves and golden nuggets called teeth that grew around words made for chanting.

As the woman with the cup turned to witness the death plunge, the bumblebee landed on her finger.

Everything became frozen and unstoppable. An ambulance arrived in the pool of sunlight and blood.

The children of God began removing the bodies from the asphalt. One could smell the night coming on like a freight train headed from heaven to hell.

A strange siren made an old man’s footsteps stutter on the street. It was like he was dancing, but only to a song that was written by a deaf man for God.

Over and over, for twelve million lifetimes, this scene repeated itself. Time and time again, like a fractal of inconstant recursion:

Oscillations of God trembled in her freckles. A bumblebee flew into a window and stung a woman planting flowers in her flowerbox on the third floor.

The woman fell. Her final thought was a Wiccan prayer. A million freckles painted themselves in legends of sunlight of the void.

And as they died, in the green house, the museum of dark matter, glowing as shadows fell in strobes and bullets — like that fabled haunt where God walked with Adam and Eve — a gathering of angel embryos began circling the mouth of the holy void.

And as each photon collided with itself, on a certain series of random Tuesdays, the Universe expanded disproportionately, taking leaps and bounds into it’s own shadow.

And without warning, in thirty five seconds, forty million people were born in heaven’s lost womb as the man disguised as Christ Pantocrator buried a key in Lucifer’s wood knotted heart.

Lucifer twisted the roots of the Tree of Knowledge into a broken puzzle made of Cherubim locks.

As if it mattered, a ziggurat exploded on Venus. A moon beam shattered in the toad’s eye.

Lip into eye, eye into heart, heart into soul, the flesh of humanity began tumbling towards the stars. Exploding from the black diamond of Christs’ heart.

Coffins were transmuted into Cadillacs by alchemists with golden teeth.

A businessman cycled his aura into his computer using only a laser and a strange chemical cocktail he’d found in a trash can in Tokyo.

The earth shifted on it’s axis.

The strange sound of fingers digging through the soil lasted for two thousand years.

Souls of Chinese peasants began boiling in the oriental sunlight up through the melted iron heart of God’s earthen teardrop.

Deep in the beanstalks of a Oklahoma, a farmer’s wife watched the ghost of Lao Tzu rise in a swarm of silver mirrors into the sky above her grain silo.

Lao Tzu, his face transformed from DNA into a whispering cloud of philosophical rumors, laughed as a tiger appeared in his open palm. The real Christ Pantocrator began chanting the square root of -1 over and over as the dark soil churned with endless ideograms, each one more complex than the next.

It was then, from a thousand miles away, that the hypnotized masses inside the television began erupting in what seemed to be a contagious and life threatening form of laughter.

One by one, the dollar bills of imagination ignited the world with the green flame of stupidity.

There was nothing anyone could do. The Man disguised as Christ Pantocrator number nine thousand twelve hundred and thirty six began sewing curtains around the eyes of passing strangers.

UFO’s extracted wisdom in pools of coincidence from around the peasant God’s unborn memories.

And Lao Tzu? He disappeared into a probability field the size of Manhattan in dream drunk Heaven.

And as the sky dissolved into a furious series of astrological changelings,
She licked God’s heart with a time bombing tongue. Her face colored the world invisible. God responded to the birth of her corpse with a dragonfly praying through the soul of a rabbit.

And as the dragonfly explained the riddle of the Sphinx to the ten worlds of Madmen, each incarnation more random than the next exploded in the magical engines of star building maggots.

Irony became the disease of the year. Comedians farted tragic stupidity.

Everyone laughed because they thought they knew why.

They didn’t. They don’t. They never do. To them, life is a reflex. A conditioned response made real only by the sound of warring engines.

And it was in a dream of chocolate radioactivity, that the bestial glamour of her transcendental insanity turned Old Men into jackals of love.

Haunted streets explained themselves in the corpses of children with no souls.

Until time forgot what it was doing, nobody on earth remembered her name.

She had passed like voice of Sunlight into perfect anonymity.

And then, as Methuselah lapsed into mystery, She stepped coldly onto Planet Earth.

Desert beetles swapped Nazi love poems masquerading in the soft torture of flesh colliding with lunatics eyes.

I followed insanity towards the Chapel of Peril. It was not enough. The grail buried itself deep inside my androgynous womb.

I became real, like the axioms of God coded in the genome of fear.

She touched my thigh and I was reviled. She opened her eyes and swarmed with laughter.

Until human hearts pulsed with primordial ooze, the dank creator died in a royal flush of cupidity.

And it was then, Electra fell faceless into the darkness of humanity, like a ballerina colored werewolf shrieking for the cure of God’s infinite love.

It became impossible to know where I stopped and You began.

Every world was one. An infinite curvature of finite eyelids cured by starlight into bloody windowpanes of dream. And Frankenstein draped his flesh on my bones.

Backwards shaped men walked through ghost lands rippling with Satanic dream eels.

On the edge of Neptune, a broken fish king crawls up the stairs, seeking revolution in the face of passing galactic aborigines.

A trillion Zeroes worth of madmen’s eyes drowned in the light of a sturgeon blue moon.

The city of Heaven, the Jerusalem of the Imagination, the Athens of the Dream, was on fire.

Mourning, Lucifer sang God’s name in bioluminescent loops. Nobody knew why his dream was rejected, or how long he’d been drowning in the richness of the soil.

Song after Luciferian lovesong, the world careened through minuets, arias, epic odes of diminishing refractions. Prisms of flesh, particles of vibrating blue notes.

And as eons pulsed with shallow fire, the flames of heaven struck down like faces during love making in bolts of mystical lightning, and bird after bird began to trill unrecognizable patterns of starlight in syzygy in their own monstrous, galaxy sized throats.

Patterns like eyes, patterns like dreams colliding with the Visible world, gaping interferences of Zeroes born between numbers not made for counting.

And as she fell from the sky, She fed us her very flesh. She rained spiders into our mouths.

Her web wrapped around our flesh like a Mother’s hair.

Drop after drop of her galactic milk flooded the streets like rain in a fish eye.

Songs eclipsed silence. Silence slipped into her soul.

She tuned the world to turn in a burning dream of misplaced momentum. One by one the Zeros drooped like wilting tulips whose gilded filigree was built by lilting prophetic squids a thousand miles underneath their terrible Godlike and occulted roots.

I — somehow, unknowingly, like a Poet being born a trillion years too late— became the fire of the Vultures beauty, my flesh torn in a wound that would dazzle Lazarus back into the grave.

My heart was as impenetrable as Achilles wound. Disguised as the Mercurial flame.

The secret flame of a Greek tragedy, burning the first dream of Aristophanes, igniting poems in the hearts of idols and virgins, madmen, sybils, Poets alike.

And walking towards heaven, she recognized the doorways to Hell surrounding her every motion.

The stars were like comedian’s mouths, swallowing her children night after night. Her name became Lilith.

Her name became Eve. She taught lessons to God that not even God could believe.

And as the garden was flooded by burnt out equations, the number line slithered into the Garden.

The asian cro magnon, dreaming of the birth of the Philosopher Queen, ate raw meat and crossed the Himalayas like the Gods of Eden ascending through the genome of star faring magicians.

And they lived Above the clouds, where the birds spoke in tongues, where the laws of cause and effect

Were like raindrops and fractals trembling on the wings of imaginary beasts forged in the catacombs of hades.

Somewhere in the depths of the Planck time of her skin, She slipped through my eyes, riding a ray of light into the farthest edges of the Mysterious world inside my bones.

Down through my Eye, her soul became a pattern of photons, dissolving at the speed of light into the Universe buried deep inside the atomic structure of time.

Down, flying, falling. Further, faster, faster still, she flew.

Then, at the moment of greatest dissonance, a harmony!

I heard a trillion universes born in smiles when she laughed. It echoed from the ceiling to her teeth, like Michelangelo’s face spinning in the Sistine Chapel.

One hundred million light years away, a single cricket took it’s place on the Oaken Throne and began to chirp her bones to sleep.

Yawn. The great cosmic bassoon of entropy. Kundalini smoke.

The fire of a pyromaniac’s heaven.

Saints generating miracles from furrowed brows of anger, a paradox of funeral pyres.

Fog. Trilling canaries. A village escaping her skin.

She leapt into the sky with the fragility of a wineglass landing on the moon. It was an inversion of wickedness, an explanation of the strangeness of our suffering in the space between the eyelids and our love.

I chased ribbons of time through her twelve thousand trials. One by one, the gestalt of her laughter tricked rainbows into the zero gravity of suspended disbelief.

A ray of sunlight zinged from under her tongue. She had become bioluminescent, like Christ on his way to Golgotha.

And it was then, at the moment of greatest doubt, that the Great Pablo Neruda, from deep within his poet’s grave, began to reorganize the colors of his birth.


The Pendulums of Limbo, swinging towards heaven and hell in permutations of God’s infinite loneliness, self organized around the jewel tree of her compassion.

And it was in that fabled history of the spectral dream orgasm that She manifested in thousands of locations simultaneously.

In an instantaneous curl of phosphorescent wildness,her mouth flickered like Krishna’s tongue above a carnival in central Kansas.

Her eyes hovered like naked beggars, thieved the light bulbs of Grand Central Station.

Her fingers stroked Christian violins in Mecca. One version of herself began chasing bears in Siberia.

Another laughed from inside the eye of a velvet bumblebee.

Three thousand nine hundred and twenty seven

versions of her Soul appeared in the blue eyes of men whose eyes had died to meaning.

A Ouija board, locked in the space between Souls, destroyed itself on the verge of her silent admonitions.

Her skin flooded with the adrenaline of nonsense. She began to count Zeros and Ones.

The disciples of love appeared disguised as a school of silver fish that swam through astral lattices towards the place She slept in her own deaths, becoming

each moment less real than the moment before.

Houdini slipped between Quarks; a tragedy appeared in Heaven. God’s echoing laughter became a drought of sunlight in the Devil’s eyes. The Desert broke into beads of reptiles.

A tree, made Unreal by it’s own superstitions, swallowed the birds of her cancer.


The roots of God gamboled in the stained glass of an imaginary cathedral on the edge of her ear.

And while the stars formed, she chanted binary logic through the eyes of a Catholic nightingale.

It was then, that under her skin, ghost songs from cowboy pianos echoed in blazing mitochondrial fevers.

Note by note, the atoms of her DNA twirled in psychedelic bliss.

And as the blue notes darkened into scarlet birds with gilded beaks, paranoia swept through the audience assembled in the gathering vortex of her soul.

It was an amphitheatre the size of Salvador Dali’s artificial heart.

She kept it in a strange space between her navel and her spinal cord, where the fairy tales crawled to sleep every night in that moment between death and waking.

Shadowy bursts of applause, roughly the frequency of nightingales heartbeats played like jazz in a fascists worst nightmare.

One by one, the sounds of birds teetering into harmony with Kierkegaard’s syllogisms raised a curious fascination from deep within her synchronicity bloom.

Life had become a chaotic miniseries, involving a cast of thousands. No longer did she call the strangers strange. She memorized the whispers of passing earthworms.

She catalogued every moment in the dictionary of disasters. And watched as he laughed with the spontaneity of a small animal locked inside a prison cell in the Heaven between Heavens.

Mummification of the dead God began in the heart of a jaguar
balanced on the vine of the dead.

Moment by moment, the jungle faced machine God evolved sticks and wyrmwood to pacify it’s inconstant neighbor in the heartache of love’s sweet attrition.

Nine, twelve, thirteen. The codex of wisdom was tattooed on the skin of the trees.

Soon it became the ecstaty of light, to flood the world with the scent of photons churning the soil in farmer’s tears.

One day, the dream stopped. A hawk fell from the sky. The night began in a dark perfume of disorder, the brownian motion collecting it’s ghosts in the sweetness of it’s own broken song.

Life switched it’s wisdoms from green to purple, like mammals leaping toward the mountaintop in search of whatever secrets had died in the heart of the moon.

I, balanced in the Vine, like a dream inside the blood of truths liar, involved in a secretive dalliance with the madman of the electromagnetic kingdom, disguised the world with a hydrogen ion— strangely the size of the known galactic eye.

And then, the heart of mankind rose on billowing petals of laughter.

For three thousand years, the earth sang only the songs of the burgeoning mania coded in the bones of the Clown of the Dead.

A green tongue licked the mammalian heart into fleshy joy. The fireflies bore unimaginable fantasies toward heaven on bioluminescent wings that spanned parsecs of dying quark queens.

Time flooded all flesh with pools of the embryonic void.

And on the night the twelfth messiah was born,

Junkyard devils swarmed from the bowels of his Father’s skull.

The entire city was lifting up from the ground, inch by inch.

Asphalt parking lots were rising without shredding.

Convenience stores, houses, Skyscrapers – each

one slowly lifting up off the surface of the earth.

And as the three faced messiah slid from the whore’s birth canal into the sewer of hell, someone disguised as a Prophet began to sing in twelve thousand voices of the nightmare that began at conception, the dream that died in the Poet’s eyes under the auspices of the Orphan itself.

And then, the sun blistered his skin with a song of it’s own; the music of idolatry, coded permutations of lightning rich paranoia striking down anyone who heard the rising movements of his heart.

Convective trebles, the rebellion paradox of a soprano rising towards the sky Galleons of Limbo; a bass undulation of monstrous joy.

It was a choir with one face, one face, one face. Twelve thousand bodies, one face.

And the french horns taught the language of rivers, while a saxophone ignited the voice of Asmodeus and Solomon in a furious cascade of strange piquant caprice that organized the stones of the temple into pyramids.

Lilting madness shivered through the audience in swastikas of western brilliance.

Oriented towards the east, spinning in the four quarters of a non local Elysium, the sacred land that does not ever never not exist, the hallways of mankind began to fill with human characters both tragic, anonymous and knotted in rubicons of fame and sorrowful enchantment.

It was the language of the archaeopteryx. It was the division of the cartwheel into invisible spinning ballerina souls.

He took his mask off. He put on a new face, the color of a dinosaur’s eye. Brilliant, laced with razors of springtime that sliced the world into puzzles.

And as they talked, their tongues became cobras, licking words from the scarlet ether— the multiverse became new in her flesh, each iota, each atomic sub-pattern exploding in miracles of impossible conjurations.

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tears of sudden pointillism

With the strange coils of her DNA oscillating in a turgid purgatorial wilderness, something inside her flesh was made unreal. She felt herself chasing clouds of dust bleached starlight through the soul tunnels of an unfinished God.

She knew not what to do. Ever. So she slept like a baby in a deep spiritual slumber.

Screams of quasars ignited her occipital neurons. Worlds crashed inside her skull.

The moment of fire and doubt began like all manifestations of Eternity do: hope burnt by the flood of despair.

A wicked and inhuman cruelty mixed with a murderous pulse of the inevitable: unrequited love.

A night of lust made strong by the threat of broken promises; a day of hell revealed in the curl of a smile.

She became what is not. She became the opposite of herself.

Embers of consciousness swirling in the pointillism of a green scarab’s love song turned the blue earth into a cartoon smile.

Her nostrils flared madly toward the scent of her own birth.

She listened to her pulse in the mirror of Hell.

And her eyes shut with the blackness of God’s doubt.

And her heart beat like the ocean, a red tide swollen with lust revealing a blue depth charged with imaginary cathedrals of cubist geometry.

Picasso smiled in the void.

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the razor wire hearts of egos broken by the Word of God

A storm of wine bottle shaped madmen bathed like Greek comedians in a strange flophouse allegory for the seventeen
hours it rained outside the shelter walls.
Invisible eyes swallowed the eye of the human eye in a furious curiousity
that permeated each starving ember of flesh and tripped the razor wires of broken egos as the Word
of God flickered in the darkness, the dank sweaty womb of what seemed to each
of the men in various ways to be a portal into the belly of some great and unbreakable
beast. Civilization was rising in tombstones and superhighways, one bacterial salvation at a time.


He stood with his backpack full of Voltaire and Rimbaud, eating the echo of his own Godliness
in the cold dawn of a Texas winter morning. His face was pockmarked like the moon. He removed
from his backpack a convenience store chicken sandwich, swallowed it in two bites and then
and emptied the world of doubt by walking
in a swaggering desperation toward the bus station crawling with human psychological refugees, each one seeming stranger
and stranger than the next as their eyes pried open his ego with whatever tools of comprehension available to their souls.


It was then, in a dizzying gamble of treachery, his throat clutched around a bird’s egg that into his open mouth
fell like fire from the sky made humble by the shadow of God.

He turned towards the skeletons and asked them if he knew their neighbors. It was all the audience could do not to laugh.

The television set flickered like a Luciferian parasite in a world made of lichens.

They claimed he was being irrational for defending the honor of the sick and the dead. For taking on the current incarnation of the world
in it’s ghastly ballet of heartbreaking stupidity. They were neither wrong nor right.

Hallucinatory algorithms of his dying Bride’s face began to hypnotize the raindrops of madness they swept towards heaven revealing lips and eyes not made for human comprehension.

He heard the dream swarm laughing in a sky unbalanced by the black hole of God’s open wounds.

Like any Greek tragedian, his heart was made of razor wire. He’d tangle it with language and the vestigial legends of a time before the heat death of symbolism.

At night, a minotaur with eyes like silver dollars would climb into her window and steal the moonbeams from golden scarlet hair.

Secrets leapt like blue eyed fish from oceans of unconsciousness in her soul.

Every hour, she tempted the audience into hanging silent in the doorways between death. They’d sway on silver tethers as the breath of God fluttered their wings as if they were japanese kites.

And as Lucifer landed on Venus in starlight stolen from the flesh of Krishnas heart, her soul bloomed in perfect rhythm to the drum of Panic and Disorder.

Multiple incarnations of his body flooded the world with unbroken tears like nails that pierced the flesh of passersby in crucifixions of madness and delirium.

And as they threw themselves into the fire, the dancers feet began to bubble like the cloven hooves of an angel forced to dwell in the bowels of the deep diabolic fractals of Limbo.

Blood rained like pharaoh eyed coal through the exit wound of her skin.

An old woman, her face on fire with paranoia, lurking at the bottom of the belly of the whale, witnessed the human spirit soaring on the breath of the Illuminati ascending like the King of Divine Spermatozoa through the rushing declension of the ages.

Deep in the belly of the whale, from Lao Tzu to Einstein, each miracle faced orphan of God landed in the center of the Pentagon and began to laugh and weep, weep and laugh, like mathematicians

During the final digits of Pi. The world gasped the day Pi terminated. It sang itself awake.

First, down through the sky, came the sages. Then came the poets. Then the philosophers.

Lady Godiva was pursued by Nostradamus.

It was the celestial curtain call. And the dark spaces between the stars became tunnels.

And the tunnels slithered like wormholes. It suddenly dawned on the Idiot inside the Machine

That the entire Universe was actually the mirror image of a Sponge.

Somewhere Lucifer was laughing. But not within earshot of Cthulhu.

“We don’t want to cause a panic” said the policemen gathered around Buddha’s tooth in the Pentagon Gazebo.

Five fingered lucky Monkeys raced across the globe in the form of knick knacks.

Each one had inanimate eyes. They did not laugh. They refused to weep. They spoke nothing and could not move.

Yet they knew. They knew all along. It is the Science of Immutability. Transcendental Inanimation.

Suddenly, the sky became filled with a new color. A priest recognized it as the eye of the Archaeopteryx. It glowed somewhere between infrared and ultraviolet, in a wavelength with a semi-random frequency.

Eye of the Archaeopteryx. Her name was Mary Magdalene. She was the Oldest trick in the Book.

The psychiatrists knew that earth had been invaded by dragonflies. They were everywhere.

It is one thing to never see your own face in the mirror. It is another thing to be blind to circumstances.

The diamonds of her dream— cooked as they were in a brain made deep and dark by infinity’s warm winter wave— the strange tongues of unborn beings washing themselves in your genitalia with unbelievable memories\’85. It was all anyone could do but not vomit in the starlight that everyone knew was singing their name.

Even as She and He rolled in the grass, pretending to be serpents in an act of Voodoo Christianity; she knew and he knew, they were as good as Born.

the white cranes were exponents searching for God’s post molecular heart

Change balanced a taoist sage in her brain on acrobatic wings fluttering in the perpetual motion of endlessness itself. Her eyes were like pendulums of wisdom. Floating on her face as if it was starlit pools of fool’s gold, a flickering image of white cranes made her physically ill.

She changed the channel and felt her dead Mother smiling. It was all she could do to whisper her own name in the flickering frames of light that bore shadows descended from the vegetable robot queens.

Gathered inside her brain, a billion molecular parasites disguised themselves as Platonic memories.

One by one, those ghostly embers of logic swarmed in roiling flocks of neurotransmitters in what She felt in her bones was a frightening fool’s parade of quantum entanglement.

As time hung suspended like a tigers face at dawn, her wings folded around the sacred heart of the Death Messiah.

She laughed. And leapt into the whale’s mouth.

Her eyes flew forward in a hundred thousand G’s. Her soul condensed around her smile.

She swallowed her children, one by one and landed deep inside a chamber of noise.

Where floating in her face, the landing beams revealed a trio of desert nomads whose cheeks were gaunt as a poet’s heart.

The nomads— lost inside a shattered mirror— discovered her name in the dark spaces between the stars.

And together, the nine of them became miracles of consciousness, explaining the riddle of God in movements choreographed by Lucifer’s infinite mother, whose vegetable dreams haunted the prism of flesh with a strange liquid heartache of recursive sorrow.

Reflecting each hour, she unfolded her wings into Van Goghs final scream. Unrequited love rippled in her musculature like a dead God on the verge of a grotesque and vastly impermanent resurrection as a lily in the white heat of a lion’s eyes.

SHe was born during the Eldritch growl of an Ancient Vegetable Dream

A single tree, growing in his brain, laughed like the Eldritch growl of the most ancient Vegetable Queen.

Flames flooded it’s fleshy green chalice. Rivers of vines, their tributaries overflowing with chlorophyll and sunshine, spilled their guts into the hearts of the Bears.

Berries spoke freely of the love pangs of God.

The squirrels tripped into acorns and the acorns became the eyes of the squirrels. A praying mantis howled vectors of probability across the field where Buddha lay sleeping.

The entire forest was lisping with madness. Stuttering with beauty, a chocolate abyss of soil and golden teacup faced insects named after creations greatest mystery:


A lone leaf licked it’s way down into the nest of a hollow log. It conjured up rainbows ofsalvation, each a stranger shade of Infinity than the next.

She slipped into her skin and knew: infinity is the world of pure color. The only thing we ever understand is color. Color gives birth to pattern. Pattern gives birth to the world.

Color. She sang for ten trillion eons of the lilting yellowy jaundice coded in the sunlight flooding the forest floor.

Color. She knocked on blue’s window. She grasped red’s fierce shadow. She nodded in a purple prison made real by pink’s vast insanity.

Everything in that day began to know the strength of it’s own miracles. Fingers plundered coffins of skeleton gold. Silver smiles oozed mercurial embers into the slipstream of an owl’s heart.

And the forest grew rich with death and birth. The mystery was never unknown, a thing to be sought.

The mystery was always the solution. To die in the dark star entropy. To flutter into the soil like a butterfly into heaven.

The forest sighed, and mankind fell from the trees and the night was made holy and sacred forever.

the Moon is a Dinosaur bone dripping with language

Platonic mist, green like Plato’s bile, drenched the vapor squelch of unfettered consciousness, distilling itself from deep within the Orphan’s wine soaked brain.

Someone was singing ecstatic love through modalities of monstrous keys of chaos. Her flesh filled voice was coming from a thousand lifetimes away. It was his secret name, and it made the stars shine like cherries falling from the tree of the Sephiroth in time to the beating of his pulse.

The white blossoms made his spirit trip into phase space in sheens of what seemed to be strange feathery seeds drifting up from the ground into deep elder space-time.

His electronic heart — and that was all it took to live forever— a synchronized emission of pulses— beat in the key of the Methuselah song. She listened to her voice receding through the dimensions in spirals of delirious Fibonacci silences.

One thousand fluctuating birdsongs echoed through his skin.

He slipped into his magical refrain. Tied the Gordian knot around his spinal serpent. Beat the drum of dissonance. Named the Lie. Whispered the eye of Angels.

And laughed as the stars exploded in his mouth.

The Galaxy became a black cat whispering it’s own name. Galaxy became a woman seeking her dream in an apple.

And it was then he remembered he was in the Green Room. A place full of dead men’s words. An ecosystem of scintillating ego theories, each one more bizarre than the next.

I, he said. I. Untold nightmares leapt in the enzymes of his flesh. His heart took a piece of candy off the floor, flooded the world with it’s exponential excitation, licked itself into sleep and ignited the sacred flame of the whispering cat’s eternal mystical doubt.

The platonic mist rose like a dying man’s final breath, permeating the troposphere with the languid sensation of desire made real in the flesh of lovers falling towards each others infinite regress.

A mad, mad, mad moment— the doppelganger lifted a chalice to it’s lips. The sky folded in Christs eyes.

The language of heaven—- words – words-words-began to rain in symphonic manifestoes down through the brainstems of beings designed to hurl rocks at the moon.

It was the arrival of Houdini in the manifest void. An experimental tribe of orphans settled like dust in the dimensions around the Great Magician’s undead flesh.

Wisps of Honeycombed Embryos made Unborn Verbs Smile in the Darkness

As wisps of honeycombed embryos of unborn verbs deep in the dopamine coils of my brain flicker in spontaneous time signatures around the black hole end of being, her soul becomes a wavelength of mutating DNA, each atom swirling towards a non local Shangri la in suites of trilling emptiness.

Karma swims from her mouth like an amphibian towards the mountaintop. Buddha licks his lips from within the Spanish moss of my time bending flesh.

The jaguar of my trillionth incarnation explained the night to a firefly, leaving the Magician’s top hat bleeding in the shade of a broken sun, sweeping adjectives into the soil of entropy.

Houdini leapt from the candlelight in huge swathes of deadness. His eyes fell off the planet.

The 9th circle of Hell echoed, echoed, echoed in momentary transmigrations of birds made from the blood cells of black swans mated to each other in stunning perpetuations of endless mystery.

He and She became enlightened in colors of wicked eccentricities, dying with each recitation of the thieves cant as the Great Houdini swayed a thousand lifetimes away, having fallen off the cross, swallowed the moon, circled the sun a trillion times, found love inside a ghosts eyes.

Someone whispered the name of Hell. Shadowed the path of damnation. Tricked the soul into an abyss.

Someone told him he was going there. And when he arrived, there were huge gasps in the starlight spilling from the mouths of men with no soul, no hope, no love save motion and memory.

Chains and locks and endless filigree of time bleached superstitions, the rotting husks of elephants, insane laughter rotating in the spitfire lucidity of decayed teeth of madmen, a dark Satanic lifelessness whispered by thieves into murderers ears.

And She trembled in the wind like a portrait of Dorian Gray suspended in the sky full of roses glowing like werewolf eyes, each memory lapsing into photosynthetic expositions of brilliantly forgotten emptiness.

Ecstatic languages fired the orphan’s wisdom in the atmosphere; nightshade, mandrake, the perfumes of bewitched jungles and forests full of strange nut gathering isotopes of the divinity; each danced in the dark rooted permutations of her vaginal membranes.

One by one the caskets lifted into the sky. The graveyard became a liar’s discotheque. Tricks balanced themselves in the darkness of an old woman’s sorrow. Quietly, with huge breaths, and glimpses of the internal configurations of madness, the soul swirled like a circus clown around a strange machine made of bifurcating fascinations.

The roots of heaven flamed in gargantuan embers through a sky perfumed with the fleshy paradox of God.

The sum total of all living brains— cast in ironic paradox, shrouded in complexity of disbelief— locked by torpor into doubt, fire, hopeless and recursive despair at it’s own apparent dissolution in the vortex of time — swirling with strange laughter in the comedy of it’s redemptive joy and strangely lucid madness\’85. What should it do but seek itself in the depths of the starry void, uncontrolled by anything except a pulse and hue and wailing of dark scarlet doves, imaginary at best, devised by some evolutionary ploy to recover a sense of divine mystery?

Madmen, laughing off key. A city street full crawling with bloody fists, whispering suns blowing down the eyes lost in a roadside Cabaret, each dancer flirting like fish with a fish hook, the world outside in permanent revolt against it’s own axiomatic dalliance with freedom.

On Golgotha where her DNA exploded in Hieroglyphics

As the ghastly Verb of Godlike fantasies crawled toward the Golgotha of her deoxyribonucleic acid,

She opened her mouth and began turning the tarot of Infinite Love over and over in a sky filled with dead love poems.

One by one the ravens pecked her flesh and quoted Shakespeare from beaks made of alchemists bones.

The night began to trickle down the street in a carcinogenic perfume. The Vagabond Fool began twirling in Sufi ecstasy in front of the madhouse gates.

She approached the edge of tomorrow with the tranquility of the Magdalene during the rape of Alpha Centauri.

A thousand heresies were born in the vagabonds jaundiced eyes. He slipped his face like a tongue into her abdomen, extracting a lovely yellow flower from her stomach with nothing more than a scintillating wink the color of a canaries soul.

Nobody knew what to do inside the madhouse walls. The Queen of the Hive had spilled her feces onto the floor, and several orderlies were amazed by it’s brilliant pink turquoise color.

As the woman whose teeth sparkled with Egyptian memory laughed, the Prince of Psychiatry appeared

And began smearing himself in the turquoise feces until the room was haunted by the molecular frenzy of an Amazonian rainforest before the birth of language, when brownian motion panthers made love to bewitched alien thunder queens in the light of radiant vines of the Dead.

And as the madhouse swelled in symphonic careening of the priapic heat death of a million delirious erections, the psychotic trembling of the fingers of God began in patterns like nightshade blooming in the vacuum soil of a dead man’s love blackened heart

Frankensteins Water Lily Eyes permeate the Non Local Calcutta

Fishing for embryos of unremembered dreams deep in the stream of consciousness, She melts her soul into an wavelength of karma driven evolution.

The fibonacci sequence pulses like the language of an eccentric Buddha on the goose down of her eyelids.


The Elephants have Evolved into Styrofoam Knick Knacks!
In the beginning. In the beginning. In the beginning. Ad infinitum.

The Apocalypse machine is stuttering. The Second Coming is skipping. Skipping. Skipping.

Apocalypse; it is the great non-event we have all been waiting for.

SOon, we will be so bored, nothing will bore us.

And then it happens. Everything possible:

The power between nations begins to wax and wane in huge epileptic seizures.

Everyone blames everyone else for everything bad that has happened in their lives, and they are right.

A man with two faces dies while swallowing a bullet shaped thunder cloud.

Seven chinese brothers land on the moon in a thimble.

The holiest prisoner of San Quentin finally escapes the conclusions of strangeness

drawn on his skin by a choir of heat seeking protons.

Time has cured itself of it’s probability leak. There will be no more mistakes. No more errors in the transcription of DNA.

Whatever Yahweh did wrong has been corrected. Adam and EVe land in Disneyland on the back of a karmic Yo Yo.

Now, your genetic sequence will repeat itself forever. You will be born again and again, an exact copy forever.

There will be millions of You. All completely identical. Repeat. Repeat.

You will now be yourself forever. Wait. Wait. Wait. From the Devil’s eye, a landing beam appears above Roswell Wal Mart.

An imaginary question mark slips in a foreign bikini from

eye to eye the way a psychotic russian ballerina might lick an ice cream cone.

It is inedible. It is indelible. In a vague miniseries broadcast from Oliver Stones reptilian hindbrain, the Apocalypse squad reverses

the mirror image of sanity once again. Cuckoo clocks begin to quote humming birds. Shakespeare leaps from his grave with a machine Gun filled with addictive confetti.

A series of well trained ocelots oscillates in perpetual thought against the shadowy manifold of the White House Rose Garden.

Bigfoot peers from the Oval office and the Skull and Bones team slips the Old One a pill. The pill is the last slice of bread

left from the Last Supper. By the time the OId One has put it to his lips and begun chewing the 2000 year old crust everything

has changed again.

The televisions are in revolt. There is nothing anyone can do as the Cameras all begin slipping into the eyes of passing strangers.

From this moment on, doom is automatic. Newborn babies are the High Priests and Priestesses. Confession will be answered

by a series of ga gas and meaningless responses generated by the good intentions left over from the Big Bang.

Nobody hears a word. Nobody moves. For seven thousand years Chairman Mao spins like a whirling dervish until finally he reaches

the place Albert Einstein saw God, the first time.

Nobody notices that the televisions have taken over. The elephants are now knick knacks.

The God of Chaos has lost the war. Death, the great magician, slits it’s own throat and the playing cards tumble to the floor

the way Siamese twins separate during spiritual osmosis.


The radioactive photon vapors spilling from King Rat’s Time nostrils convinced the population of the Underworld world to remain asleep for one more spontaneous microsecond.

Licking wounds involuntarily, like strange hyenas gathered at the Feast of Saints, the dreaming menagerie of lycanthropes and assorted vampire virgins became infected with the ego of the Great Houdini.

It was just enough time for Lucifer the Goddess of Mathematical Delirium to drive her Cadillac of Bones into the graveyard, where She took off

her skin and began praying to the elves of starlight in hopes of producing a magical instance of Butterfly Wing Colored Eyeshadow.

thousand death faeries spontaneously appeared like razors on an eardrum in the Cathedral of Stupendous Wonder.
The King Rat

took his smile down from the Antigravity Mountain 3 and chased the razors of Love into a small archipelago where nothing ever really happened.

Nothing ever happened so often that nobody ever knew what to do when something Real tried to manifest in the eldrich language

of the Great Engineer’s Thieving Hindbrain.
This occurred approximately one millenia per aeon, decade by decade as the wrinkled elephantine

juju machine calculated the neurosis of the Spectre that Made the Cosmos Holy.
Googolplex wizards died that day, like magicians eating

candelabras on the edge of a moon that was actually a giant pharmaceutical pill.
By swallowing their own eyelashes, the population

had become allergic to themselves.
They sneezed operas of loose philosophical conjectures, leaving only the holiest of Angels

free to dance in the solipsistic netherworld made strictly tangible by the advances of Marie Curie’s ghost through the mystical ether.

A language carved a poem from raw meaninglessness.
It was the strong man’s desire to live inside the Fantaseum where the nine thousand

entities disguised as one single atom could manufacture God’s heartache from the deep vegetable stir fry.

The Poets blue chocolate skull exploded in Wine Flavored UFO’s

She entered his lungs. His neurons were shiny cadillacs driven by elastic souled gnome priests, and each thought was a highway wailing with delirious urgency.

He had sought himself in the quicksand of the nightmare the way God seeks werewolves in flourescent moonbeams;
each molecule sucking it’s memory from the black hole of her consciousness until all that remained
was Descartes heavy breathing in the particle accelerator named after Madonna’s favorite honesuckle flame.

The three of them opened their mutual eye. Her heart was shaped like a baby UFO.
The Eye began circling
the burnt out corpse of their memory like it had business in a Chicago badland in the 1920’s.

One footstep at a time, it was like a strange dance involving a komodo dragon and
Jesus Christ on a discotheque floor coated with genie saliva.
Each reverberation of the soliloquy
coded itself in her DNA in a trillion loose patterns designed to infiltrate the Pyramid of Giza

with the strange sound of a fairy tale made obscene by the color of the Fairy Queen’s wine flavored eyeballs.

It became too much for the nightmare machine to comprehend.
A pair of dice disguised as Christmas geese began rolling through

the troposphere in search of the Photons derived from Lunatic Wounds.
Nobody heard the prism

scream the name of God until it was too soon to know anything but the way the green vines crawled

through the spleens ancient heaven where everything was made of pure mathematical ecstasy.

Everything as always, was designed to be continued by Ghosts locked in Ghost costumes made by women with superior chromosomal heresy genes.

QUeen of the Fibonacci death gasp Gallops towards Heaven on a Unicycle

God’s darling death faced sparrow, The Queen of the Fibonacci freedom gasp, gallops toward Saturn, signaling the breakdown of the last memory of a time bending seashell on the beach where a child has gathered

a handful of thorns named after it’s Mother.

in the lost pantomime of her face expanding in the darkness.
, the riddle has become a paradox spilling in waterfalls from the Satanic lips of

a molecular hell.

She breathes like Mozart in Andromedan subspace.
He arrives in a post atomic memory tuxedo, screaming

hallelujah, hallelujah, entropy of Man!

as the executioner builds a guillotine from love’s rubber clad energy bones.

A severed head rolls down the number line.

stars have slipped into a paper cup, leaving the Earth Mother to sway in a hypnotizing

array of golden chains of fantasy. The tongue of God sweeps through an underworld composed of Conductors tears.

The dungeon becomes a living beast,

eating the heart of Love’s deathly prism of flesh.
Love itself becomes an infectious disease,

charting a course for the edge of the flesh of the nine billion Messiahs made unreal

in the spell binding laughter of God’s secret joke.
A memory urges it’s own shadow

into breaking the wine glasses of Hell.
The chameleon boned girl exits into her own mouth,

leaving a walrus weeping in her footsteps.
The fibonacci signal evolves in a strange Galapagos

of non being. Pulses of nonsense radiate around a still point turning in the void.

The alien witch queen develops her mandrake odor. She takes a cue stick from it’s scabbard.

The world is reduced to the mirror image of death. A ghost screams like Marilyn Monroe on LSD.

The orgy of space faring octopi begins to tremble in rhythmic orgasms.
The night is a mystery that only Houdini

can escape.
He takes his first face from the skull chamber of dawn and begins to dance in circles

around the ballerina devil’s severed head. Certainty becomes a thing of the future.

I pause and watch the audience dissolve in a strange blue kinetic memory.

Dream eyed Kabuki sex faeries lost in God’s deathless Equation

Recycled auras of indigo skinned orphans pop in the rhythm of the bacterial fog; their eyes come unbalanced like dice in the fist of a messiah gambling for Godhead.

A transcendental climax ripples towards the streetcorner.

A coiled link of human hair rolls across six toenails painted with golden daisies.

The sidewalk screams an inanimate heresy. The vagabond pauses, it’s androgynous mouth opening and

Closing like a puppet’s asshole.

A whisper floats toward the halogen penumbra, fire and language commingling in the vacuous fuzz.

It has become real. Again.

With only the faintest of wisdom, the scintillating flashpoint of convergent reality.

As the newspaper blurs it’s sickly waltz of broken syntax towards an alleyway the color of an esophagus,

My heart becomes a birds nest of doubt.

The electromagnetic revolution has distilled axioms from within the alchemists womb.

Razors rain through the vagabonds eyes.

And it is apparent; all through damnation, the word has been spoken: the great magician Houdini has escaped the Hell of Creation.

Celebratory monologues of improbable vowels pool on the vagabond tongue.

Thirty six million gods arrive in clouds like untamed hearses.

The vagabond speech touches the wings of a falcon adrift on a warm city thermal.

Entire histories coalesce in this human eye. Opening and closing. Opening and closing.

I can sense the memory of Chinese peasants spilling up through the sidewalk from twelve thousand miles under my feet.

And then; it occurs. The blue light of twelve thousand photons catches itself on a cat’s spindling whisker.

It is the rarefied consciousness of the Spiritual Daredevil.

Orpheus laughs in Manhattan. Fiction has ascended in the bloodstream of man.

Under the blue photon curl, a wave of indeterminate beginnings searches itself for proof of it’s own non -existence.

Heaven trips down a series of prayers lost like phantoms on the desert Queen’s mouth.

It is not chaos. It is not order.

It is the endless array of mystery becoming that which is unknown in it’s own impossible being.

Three businessmen cloak themselves in cologne and smoke. Their teeth are golden like Achilles eyes.

I chase perpetual midnight through their central nervous systems.

With each footstep, evolution destroys itself.

Algorithms of paradox elope through the honeymoon of a space time recursion.

The scene is a fool’s eden of images lost in images gained.

Phantasmagoric curvatures ripple on windowpanes full of faces masked by flesh and photon.

Blueness! Vague triangular madmen clutching the bodies of rats as if they were heat seeking missiles.

A purse full of meaningless baubles explodes like the tongue of a liar.

Children flock toward the beaches of the psychic Armageddon.

A single word escapes from the dictionary. I dissolve in the Vagabond’s smile.

It suddenly occurs to me that I no longer exist. Rumors lick the wounds of dying egos.

I surrender to vague notions of individualism.

From the depths of Nazi Berlin, I hear my Grandfather howl the antichrist’s name.

In some unquiet antechamber on the edge of the pacific ocean, the stained glass windows are shining with the echoes of Picasso’s childhood fevers.

Under moons emblazoned with astronaut footprints, twelve Japanese angels perform Kabuki in the Chinook vortex that has sent a million eyelids into the ballet of closing.

Opening and closing.

Primary colors trickle through the soul. The spectrum is incomplete, the Owl remembers nothing.

A new fire— neither smoke nor light; neither eye nor skin. It erupts between the atoms.

Quark sings the liar’s opera into an eerie dead eyed silence.

With the strange coils of her DNA oscillating in a turgid purgatorial wilderness, something inside her flesh was made unreal. She felt herself chasing clouds of dust bleached starlight through the soul tunnels of an unfinished God.

She knew not what to do. Ever. So she slept like a baby in a deep spiritual slumber.

Screams of quasars ignited her occipital neurons. Worlds crashed inside her skull.

The moment of fire and doubt began like all manifestations of Eternity do: hope burnt by the flood of despair.

A wicked and inhuman cruelty mixed with a murderous pulse of the inevitable: unrequited love.

A night of lust made strong by the threat of broken promises; a day of hell revealed in the curl of a smile.

She became what is not. She became the opposite of herself.

Embers of consciousness swirling in the pointillism of a green scarab’s love song turned the blue earth into a cartoon smile.

Her nostrils flared madly toward the scent of her own birth.

She listened to her pulse in the mirror of Hell.

And her eyes shut with the blackness of God’s doubt.

And her heart beat like the ocean, a red tide swollen with lust revealing a blue depth charged with imaginary cathedrals of cubist geometry.

Picasso smiled in the void.

A puzzle of flesh felt itself rearranging itself in her bones.
She licked her eye until the world

found tears floating above her head. The night became a galaxy of stars weeping dangerous strangeness.

Synchronicity parallels of magical dreams

orbited the young woman’s fist, suddenly curling around her fingers which dripped with the crushed husk of a pomengranite.

A blind temptress, her skin swaying in a savage red slit of a dress, six feet tall and under the impression of her own undead mystery, waltzed along the sidewalk contemplating the murder of her second child.

She felt the puzzle become a flag.
Suddenly, she slipped like a razor across the throat of a bus driver
headed towards his own psychic Casablanca.

Nobody knew what to think anymore. The universe had rearranged in their bones and converted their flesh into strange tapestries of meaningless motion.

All anyone could do was billow, drift, shimmy, rotate, glide, swirl, undress, make love in unison, float in delirium, eyelessly gazing at their own feet, witnessing strange manifestoes

Explode from their mouths, involving themselves in each separate crucifixion the way peasant children

Swing sticks at hollow pi\’f1atas. There were miracles slipping from heart to heart in perfumes of disorder.

What made it all seem inevitable was this: nobody expected it at all.
This lent the events of that year

A certain levity. As if the faces of the Karl Marx had been discovered in a cave painting a thousand feet below the surface of Tokyo.

And the puzzle shifted in her bones. She felt the swastika of Time empty it’s throat into the sky.

She felt the hurricane of God moan.

She slipped into the convenience store and began speaking Turkish to the clerk.

It was a language neither of them understood. And she sang.
The clerk, herself strung out on alcohol and marijuana,

Began throwing all the money she had into the window in a celebration of the Nightmare of Taoist Synergy.

She felt the puzzle change. A series of prophecies wrote themselves on her skin.

The strangers called them tattoos. They are not tattoos, she decried.
They are my own flesh

Disguised as love poems from God.

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Eternity In Her Own Eye. The Soul Oasis.

Your nightmare, dizzy as a black cat in a whirlpool of coincidence, bled a furious oasis of contagions.

From the death stream of the sacred pillow leapt a wild eyed basilisk.

In the space between the molecules of your brain, the Flood of Nepenthe curled into fruit and flesh of the Orgy at the End of Time.

It seemed, to the Virus of Heaven, a strange calculation for the Universe to make as midnight waged it’s trembling wars against the law of order.

She grasped eternity in her own eye. Left the hotel shrieking the name of God. She witnessed tambourines of silence licking the lampposts as dead men crawled up from the sewer.

It was all anyone could do not to laugh at the wounded scarlet mystery floating between her lips.

Her face became a revolving door of lost consciousness.

A dozen orphans assembled in the shadow of God as she maneuvered into position between the moonlight and the crucifix. It was like a scene from a movie made in the Dark Ages.

Everyone on the street began to whisper the name of Jesus. Involuntarily.
As the wind kicked up in response

The streetlamps flickered. The body of Christ fell from the cathedral spire.

A firefly drifted by; the earth was alive! She felt gravity pulling her into the grave.
As she walked towards the birthday party,

Several species of funeral insects began to suck darkness from her shadow.
The archangel Michael

Exhaled a perfume of disbelief and miraculous sorrow.

And then; in a series of primitive magical dissonances, several thousand miles under their feet, a choir of Chinese peasants

Became delirious with the rumor of freedom generated in the heavenly firefly’s mythopoetic glimmer.

The Sun twitched in it’s hydrogen flesh.

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Sputnik Bombed Charles Manson’s Uterus with Images of God

In an Unfinished City, the Symphony of Nightmares glows with gestalt of the brainstem of Eden.

Mystery is awash in the Isolate Quarks of disembodied wisdom; it is a curl of Spanish madness.

The cathedral of death appears. It disappears.

It reappears a nanosecond later a million universes away.

It rotates in scintilla of fevers unknown to God and eternity.

The cathedral becomes nothingness. Nihilists congregate in pools of anarchic elixirs.

God reappears as a pattern of light rippling in endless rhythms of endless fractals

endless endlessness endless

ness curled into cat’s eyes in a windowsill. A witch howls the tetragammatron.

The cathedral inhales the scent of a dying and broken wheel of flesh.

Civilizations are coded in her fingernails.

She is turning. Turning the world into languages of fire on empty roads .

The Priest laughs.
His face is like a jade statue of an entirely improbable

Buddha trapped in blackness;

His heart glows like the speech blackened eye of a woman lost inside a lover’s fist, hiding scarlet

hummingbirds in the fields of dawn trapped in a thousand bathroom mirrors.

Her face becomes the prism of sanity. Her face is a ghost.
Her face is painting itself across the sky in

electrified blueness.

Blueness splashing with a myriad of hydrogen shadows; the purplesque tongue swollen in red lacunae

Color is the language of heaven, she said. Christ died in slow motion. Ten million year death scene.

The atoms of Christ became the nightmare of the Priests. The daydreams of the Nuns.

And now the gambling dice of eternity are still rolling.

Like whores ovaries. They roll. They never stop. Her eyes eat the skin of Jesus. She says She was there.

A cannibal vampire writhing in the grass of the hill named Golgotha chewing on the flesh of the messiah.

All of this occurred in your room.

While the acid monkey deejay played drums in a psychedelic fever on satellite nine.

And Sputnik bombed Charles Manson’s uterus with Images of God.

She became the Saint of Endless Infections.

She prayed for your soul in Hell.

Can you hear the question? Question it all! Question everything again.

She called love dissection. She made fear starve. She made dreams decay in your skin. She sang like the million faces of a broken God in a broken image.

She became the desert soil, sprouted cockroaches from her mouth and lifted her breasts toward heaven.

Then she died. And resurrected. In the perpetual rain of the menses.

Diamonds and dirt crushed the flowery dragons of consciousness in her dream stained vagina crawling with the seed of the broken eyed fool.

It is the wasteland of her memory

And there are dead faced pennies in the devil’s fist. Parachutes opening in God’s eyes.

A mouth obsessed with fire. A heart broken by it’s own curves.

I am You, in heartbroken sense of the word “am”.

It was time, the great trap of consciousness— that lured the Luciferian Goddess into her own heart.

It was the echo of her mouth that delivered us like orphans from the labyrinth.

We chased starlight through the fallen October, leaving footprints of glass in a mysterious swirl of fading colors.

Echoing messiahs whose feathered plumes are like rainbows unforgiven their desire to exist.

She is imploding in thirteenth century memories, like the eyes of a magician circling a dove

On the edge of a pool of water and dreams.

I am floating through this diabolic language in ecstasy made real by the white scarlet curls of your triumphant mouth.

It is an echo of the disturbance that led the Archangels to peer into the Messiah’s perpetually forgotten eyes.

It was the riddle of God’s name carved on the bathroom wall.

IT was unpronounceable fury of Greek Satyrs.

It was your stupidity. Your memory crawling through the language, like the Serpentine coils of a muscle

Flexing it’s wisdom in the stomach of heaven.

Love is the miracle of hell. Permutations of water and wine in her scarlet manifold.

Her DNA dripping from the ceiling. Her nightmare flushed into the sewer.

A million strange insects licking her wounds in the catacombs of God’s bowels.

We became each other, like the Virgin Mary searching for a fresh combination of sorrow and joy

In the meat of our godless bones.

I arrive in a hearse, wearing your face

On the edge of a flame

Made real by the lightning drunk cockroach spitting starlight from the empty mirror of it’s open mouth.

You still have no idea.

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The Starlit Throats of Chameleon Boned Supermodels

To begin there was the night of starlit throats of chameleon boned supermodels sucking honey of flesh from wineglasses in hell.

All along the Tower of the darkened City. The City that Refuses to Explain.

The night was pregnant. It crawled on a fat belly, licking dream into dream in a symphony of terror that whiplashed its way from the eyes of beggars into the hearts of those colored naked by fever.

I was balanced on a bowling pin in the middle of Times Square. The city was reverberating in the key of Solitude and memories of the Titanic. All because of a song. Nobody knew what to think, but somehow they kept their voices low against the palette of the night, surrendering all but single photons to the great open mouth of Eternity.

As I memorized my life, She appeared. Atom by atom, a static mass of flesh in a strange purple thundercloud, she was like a Cactus in a black and white photograph. Unearthly, brilliant, piquant and full of pricks that lasted well through the arrival of her seven fleshes.

I stood in her shadow for three seconds. It was all I could do, after her language wrapped it’s way around my abdomen.

Time, she said: was a particle of dust gathered in God’s eye, melted down by the welding torch of a great doubt.

She feathered her tongue against my soul. I laughed in a dissonant curl of abandon.

We became one. We became two. Two became three. Three became six. Six became nine.

It is the language of cold fascism. The language of mascara rippling on the eyelids of the void.

Carousels of Infantile Imbeciles

The carousel of infancy. Like being born a trillion trillion trillion times. Diving like a dolphin faced spiral into the roller coaster of God’s heart.

Madness of miracles. Expecting all solar fury unbound.

Lunar infancy. Laughing my way through the birth canal of time.

Endless birth. A series of harmonies. Baby faced spiders. Baby faced void. Baby faced nonsense.

My own void. My Mother’s and Father’s lives unwinding in the cobra veins of insanity. Climbing the ladder of DNA. I began crawling through mud, mutating mutation mutant until the sky’s unholy wisdom, I became.

The open road, dust, crawdad’s crawling into outer space: another mask. A potato humming a rainbow into song.

Always the turning of geometrical inversions. From black to white and into fractals of blueness that fastened themselves to the mouth of endlessness, swirling like language in a beggars anus.

My teeth fell into the starlight. My bones became elastic and my flesh dripped with significance.

It was all I could do to keep the wheels to move again and again. A thousand miracles leapt from my open mouth.

Heartache bore witness to it’s own delicious blooming in the tragic lacunae of life’s inconceivable banquet.

Time slapped it’s pulse into rhythm of holiness. Mankind delved deeper into the black spaces between ordinary photons. Nobody noticed the way the Sky fell into the eyes of the cat.

Always falling. Always changing. Always ceasing. Never actually stopping. Becoming slower and slower in the measure of life and time, like Beethoven’s pulse diminishing as he walked through the German streets.

Like a jazz trumpet slowly pouring it’s heartache into the ears of poor dead Van Gogh’s heartbreaking sunflowers, thirsty with the sex of deathless awakening.

The atoms of God’s infinite skeleton, twirling eternity unburnt by the Magistrate of dead eyes, echoed two by two in shadows of starlight, howling memories of Castor and Pollux adrift in the razor mouth void.

The Swan Souled Sailors spirit twice born in an uncreated egg, like language on the tongue of the twice blinded eye of a paradox of deep eldritch unbecoming.

I stood unbound by the tragedy of flesh eating flesh after flesh. A messiah in a lizard suit.

A costume of skin, flesh wrapped around mysterious holes of love and vapor.

Eating journalist skin like liars tongues bathed in malaria. As a strange tornado of mouthless strangers became a nightmare in corpuscular magic and lit Houdini’s undying flame with wicked Phoenician wizardry.

Consciousness rattled it’s Satanic blood heresy in the dizzying apocalypse of sunburnt skin and nightingale fantasies, each devil of love becoming dust in sad vegetable heartache.

A white winged Sybil entered the worm’s heart. A tornado eclipsed the Kansas maternity ward.

Aleister Crowley lived and died an acorn in the abyss below Manhattan.

Twelve hours of magic left the city sweating with billions of orgiastic moans. Citizens fucked each other into nightmares of comedies unbecoming straight mouthed liars bent on the hammering anvil of flesh livid with furious copulations and death.

Comitragic magistrate! The dead heat sunk it’s teeth in her flesh.

Virgin Vampire. Sybil of Meaningless love. Teenage Mutant Ninja Deejay.

The ghost of the Seventy deadness, laughed like children as coincidence shivered in the darkness of my invisible bones.

A series of inconsequential monsters blistered the mouths of strange jewels dying in a darkroom.

In a series of seizures, I became an undying echo. Extinction weighed it’s navy blue scream.

Of time. In time. Through time. Towards time. A dark scarlet bird, singing like a dead guitar.

I felt strange scarlet bird feathers falling into my orange flesh like strands of a violinist’s golden hair.

It was the first night in a long series of impermanent Octobers and the Deep tragic Dozo played heaven’s honey bee rhythm twice backwards in a mirage of color and perfume as the mirrored void echoed in a million vapid insect eyes.

I and the beloved, She and the Queen of Death, lost in mysticism of a Nightmare Tongue eclipsed by a Dream God unbroken by time, eclipsed the sky with spittle of caterpillars and mute caterwauls of torpor and unbroken diabolical karma.

We and She of all of the Dead watched in horror. The clock crowed nine. As cock flew rhyme.

As the serpentine eyes of Cerebrus pillowed in atrophy against the night sky. A galaxy of carcinogens and meteors eclipsed the flesh of the Solar King with a single unfrozen scream.

Bullets pierced the childs flesh in the horrid stench of unending war.

War became whore in the eyes of the Girl with no eyes. She laughed as she was born.

Word became dead became lost in the swastika of time. Horror in the howling polar frenzies of her perpetual rape by the Starlit Thief of Five Pentacled Death.

I drifted like God through skull after skull in ancient prayers unceasing.

We became what we were. We became what we weren’t. Machines rippled in orgies of disaster in the filigree tapestry of our unquiet bones. Telephones strangled the human voice into unbroken riddles of silence.

A whirlpool arrived like the face of Jesus in the clouds. Messiahs of Synchronicity died in the star spangled electricity.

Everyone instantaneously whispered the name of the Poet who burnt his soul for twelve dollars on the dead side of midnight, while leeches were born in the Congolese lightning that bathed the world in a rumor of color shapeshifting in Heavenly Hell.

It was a miracle of insects. A void of false idols. Her face became plastic, like credit card used in fluorescent lightning, full of numbers shifting in patterns under the skin.

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Wacko Blacko Summa Deadhead Nervosia

In the Unfinished City — space and time are washed in the Isolate Quarks of disembodied wisdom; patterns of scintilla echo in endless rhythms of endless fractals endless

endlessness ending in endless

splendors of infinity; echoing; spinning

like deep blueness awash in a myriad of shimmering spinning whites;

green fields dripping in dark chocolate embers; spinning

the purplesque shadow rising with redness into scarlet yellows that billow in flame and rain

“colors are the language of heaven” she realizes, as she goes\’85.


her heart is breaking open in blood and rainbows and rainbows and blood\’85

they become interchangeable. They balance in prisms of flesh and sky.

Sir Isaac Newton’s eye rolls through the cosmos.

It is the alchemy of insanity.

Something spins. It all spins. It spins like darkness in a cotton field. Rolling, rolling, rolling. Rolling.

Stars. Atoms. Hearts. Earths. Hurricanes. Dynamos. Ballerinas.

Flowers Amphibians Starlight.

It’s all spinning. A spinning. A deep sacred spinning.

The gambling dice of eternity are spinning. Like whores ovaries. They roll. They never stop. Her eyes eat the skin of Jesus. She was there. A cannibal vampire.

Chewing on the flesh of the messiah. In your room. While the acid monkey hurricane played drums in a fever on television nine.

A trillion tongues trickling into the night. Trickling with words and dreams, dropping dream bombs

in the monsoon of dark delirium.

Think of Charlie Manson’s mother. Now have pity on yourself.

She became your Saint. She prayed for your soul in the public square. Out loud.

Screaming, like a tarantula queen.

Can you hear the question?! Question it all, again. Question everything

Are you even alive? Are you? Are you? Prove it.

She followed the orders into dawn. Marched until her heart broke.

Then inflated the world. Began weeping children.

Began weeping mammals. Sperm whales. Elephants.

Charlie Manson’s mother.

Drops of flesh oozing from a green and blue eye.

She called love dissection. She made fear starve. She made dreams decay in your skin. She sang like the million faces of a broken God in series of broken images.

One by one, trillions arrived from the root of her dream.

She became the desert soil, sprouted cockroaches from her mouth and lifted her breasts toward heaven.

Then she died. And resurrected. In the rain of the menses.


In the rain of the menses, which became the Gedanken of love.

It was the fear of war. That it would be forgotten. It resurrected in the dead poem.

The poem of madness; the poem of the bones.

The molecules exploded like the pieces of a broken puzzle.

The dead soldiers marched on, they shot the Universe full of holes. Your nightmare bled.

A song:

When Johnny comes marching home


Hoooooorah. Like water, like whiskey, like saliva and

The desert sings a song of end

Less –

twenty million sperm. twenty million.

Only one ever makes it. A damn waste?

There are fractals dying in the soldiers eyes. Jeweled whispers listening to nobody.


It is a western novel, set somewhere between Los Angeles and Texas.

In the first scene, a dead boy rises from the ground and begins calling his mother’s name.

A lone raven sits plucking it’s eyes out in a gas station full of dead crickets.

Suck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The air is thick as a masturbatory dream. Random ejaculations fire through the night.

Cocksucking ballerinas parade in cartoon versions of Hell. I seek mercy only in the total mystery.

Leave me alone. You don’t fucking matter. This one is between myself and God.

Or godlessness. Whatever remains. Whatever hears.

Cthulhu. Leviathan? Magdalene?

Who turned the rain into grapes? Where hide the leopard spots?


It’s all there is. This is Texas, a swanky Texas City, full of SUV’s and large screen TV’s all tuned to the same channel.

The Aliens have landed in the land of the City that Doesn’t Exist. We are Them.

As I walk towards myself

As I you walk towards yourself

As he

As she

As they

Walk towards themselves

We are dead. Dying. Becoming that which death is.

The black widow spider seems to be pointing with one of it’s legs in the direction of a Cathedral.

She follows the spider in slow motion through the downtown of the city.

It stops at the Cathedral.

Of course, like any true lovers of the divine lost in the dizzying presence of the probability of God, She and the Spider begin to send signals back and forth. Chemical whispers. Involuntary pheremonal symphonies. Symbolic shifts of body language. They dance. Atom by atom, corpse by corpse, they tango and waltz through the perfume of conscious melodies.

A thousand feet below their feet, the underworld is rocked in a series of tremulations.

Murder. Mayhem. Paranoia. Shame. Guilt. Sorrow.

Wacko Blacko Summa Deadhead Nervosia has assumed the role of the Dead King of Dead Kings.

Nothing for nihilists. Daylight ceases and desists. Everything dies again.

The wave of Zoe, the elopement of Uma into the eyes of Vishnu has been delayed.

Kali. Kali. Mantra gumballs. Eyes like Spanish galleons. Nonsense. Everything worked

Very well.

The Black widow is delighted. Very seldom does She cause death, prophecy and hypnosis in one day.

Falling through the void, she became a spiraling moment outside of her own flesh.

The wilderness-from the seed to the sky — wrapped itself around her body in umbrella shaped worlds

with no meaning or consequence. A butterfly, lost in the eye of a star gazing mathematician, tricked her soul into fleshy circles of consequence.

Like laughter, the sky began where the dead God’s flesh curled into cyclical wisdom.

A door opened in the madman’s heart. She put on her shoes and slipped into his blood.

It was the world of endless motion. For decades, her body erupted in flames of coincidence.

There was nothing to tell except the unknowable meaning of endless mystery.

Nothing to know. Only the sensation of dropping like fruit through the skeleton of the vine.

One by one, her cells drifted in heliotropic probability. She felt numbers weeping under her skin.

Crystallizations of mystery rising in the eye of underworlds not meant to be recognized.

The rise and fall of at least one primitive civilization.

Blood like dreams coursing through the gold mines where the dead Gods roamed.

A jewel throated canary flickered in the darkness. Briefly, the universe tasted the dream of salvation.

She laughed at the irony of instantaneous simultaneity.

A dead God laughed. It named itself the mystery. Something began to spin?

She divided the fruit into gardens of synchronicity.

As the pattern shaped itself through itself, thirds, fifths, sevenths, ninths evolved.

Smoke rings billow in purgatorial wisps around the City of Her rebirth. Half naked and barefoot, she leaps down the summer street, her feet barely touching the ground.

Wheel upon wheel of conscious symbology spins in her shadow. Swastikas of wind separate the dreams from her skin.

Atom by atom, as the Gods rearrange themselves in her body, her flesh manifests outside a night club.

In the City of the Night With No End, she falls through chapels of endless crucifixions. The doormen call her the Cuntless Whore of Babylon Incarnate. It is not her only name. The Discotheque is the Church of Sex and Creation.

Her heart is a bomb of superstition, exploding like the first orgasm of youth.

She is contemplating the extinction of all living things while sitting in pigeon shit at the bus stop. Her skin ripples like the binary code of heaven.

She has two dollars to her name, but the synchronicity of deathlessness is howling in her flesh.

She will fuck for money, she will beg for food. She will dance her way into the grave, and once she is dead, she will be reborn in a perfect repetition of the sweetest freedom that any living being has ever experienced.

The freedom of absolute unconditional love for all creation and the innocence of having never killed a living thing.

.As the joke and the nightmare pulse in the museum of her brain, her laughter is a series of spontaneous freedoms, explosive and impermanent.

All around her, the streets are burning with broken fires of an inconsolate humanity.

Faces tattooed with dollar signs. Screams of aborted memories leap from pools of semen.

Listen closely. Here, in the Western tango of chaos and cosmos, coded in the City that Does Not Exist- ancient pulses commingle and coexist in a dizzying blur of soul stirring visions.

Every man, woman and child for three city blocks is a witness.

Strands of golden hair raining down from a periwinkle sky. Is this the kingdom of heaven?

Does anything ever happen here?

Eyes clouded by shadow seeking silence under hats stitched with wounded spider silk.

Passersby avoid her gaze with the silent fury of ignorance and despair.

Tell me your real name, she whispers to the blue sky The sky replies with a silvery gasp.

Columns of moonlight sprout from the open wound of her soul. Rings of gold are born in her smile. She is Europe and Asia, Africa and America. She turns the key in the locked heart of man.

Moment by moment, the sound of her spirit breaking into divine recognition of the paradox of paradox filters through the world, leaving strange traceries of delight in the hearts of all living beings.

Creation oozes from the pores of her flesh. Gazelles leap through her bloodstream. A lion nurses a wounded thundercloud in her bellybutton. Zebras drift like meteors across the meadows of her abdomen.

Her eyes ignite in the fire-wisdom of the sun that cooks the soul of earth awake. She brings theEarth to her breast. Rivers of salvation spring from the atoms of her ovaries.

A thousand recursive shadows deep into a bloodstained and teardrop tinted cave just above the electron rich Himalayan reality fractal of Mount Mc Leod Ganj, the creature who has come to think of itself as the psychotic whore of non local babylon is painting tiny green and golden apples onto her toenails.

Moment by moment, her flesh sizzles with the mirror image memory of love and imperfection; the faces of the undreamable resurrection flood her skin with fossils of the fool’s apocalypse.

It is something completely unexpected, unfamiliar; to be alive in this moment.

Here is anywhere. Here is nowhere. Here is there, the place they named. It’s really meaningless, all the language in the world never told anyone anything.

She melts into herself, wordlessly, like a Dali clock in a nursery rhyme. Tick tick, tock tock.

Talking backwards through the fluted haze, she has escaped the prison of logic and superstition, drifted into pure essential nonsense, the meaninglessness of love.

She nails herself to an invisible crucifix. Her heart bleeds four dimensional poetry; she falls off the cross at last, leaving a shadow of blood in her trail as she crawls back into her Mother’s womb, where the angels have gathered to mourn the death of God’s first delusion.

Glancing toward the sky, she witnesses strange equations balanced between the stars. It is all she can do to keep from laughing hysterically at the meaning of life coded in her own holy bones.

The equations flutter through the atmosphere like birds without songs. Winged fractions, weeping variables in the phrygian logos blow across the mountaintops, exploding into thundering echoes of the first fractal in the dream life of the Godlessness of God.

Her feet are webbed, as if they have been sewn together by perfectionist spiders. It is auspicious. The veins on her ankle sparkle like golden seams in a mineshaft. Her toes are tiny candelabras of pinkness.

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Spontaneity of Moonless Spanish Vanishings

The Godhead! She bows; swirls, trips. Her skirt is an umbrella of eyes. Her mind drifts like a balloon through Tuesday’s dead heat in the ocean of memory that has seemingly swallowed her soul complete.

The street. West Commerce, where she danced as a child, full of the strange smells and dizzying blurs of colors.

A purple smoke rises from the restaurant. It smells like fajitas. She thinks of Jimi Hendrix.

Red, Orang, Yellow Blue. She freezes in her own shadow. She is punched by sunlight into a delirious stupor.

It is too beautiful to comprehend. Even her death, approaching like a coffin on acid, is too beautiful to imagine.

She is singular. Alive. Drifting between rumors. Lost in her own language. It is automatic.

Molecules drip from her eyes. They are like ghosts of memory! Again, she wonders; why the ghosts?

What haunts this atmosphere? She thinks about the Congo. It is reflected in the African eyes of passing strangers

The congo. Where the lightning forges questions into answers. Answers into mysteries.

The Congo.

The sky is full of lines, ribbons, traceries of geometry. The clouds are skeletons of the Leviathan.

It is as if a mathematician has circled the world in a strange equation.

She glimpses her soul in a stranger’s passing eyes. She peers deep into the beginning of the Universe.

Does anyone else recognize their own birth in the emptiness of her face?

Yes. She knows this. She has felt the liquidity of dreams exchanged in broad daylight.

It is almost orgasmic, this constant attention, this constant climax of magic.

She waltzes through a fever into the balance of Universes unhinged by logic. She is now a tigress, hiding in the bamboo of unbelievability.

There is a nightmare. A shadow’s shadow. The darkness is thick like frozen coffee. It is impossible to move

Batman falls like a razor into her eye. It is just a cartoon.

An American juxtapostition of memory and prophecy.

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Ghosts of Sunlight Eating their Own

As I walk towards myself

As I you walk towards yourself

As he

As she

As they

Walk towards themselves

We are

Bathed in skull fucking fear and the implicate order of hierarchies unfolding in the heart of God.

And Caroline, the Quark Faced Apparition of Peacock Alley, a girl of 23, a woman of infinite grace, has swept the Universe into a deep sleep, folding her soul in a cardboard box into a corpuscle of eternity down into the nested fantasia of her dream studded eye.

Gold mines ripple in her blood. She balances on her toes in the solar nightmare.

She is a whisper explosive. A miracle contagion. Her feet do not touch the earth.

On this particular morning, she presses her face to the sidewalk in an act of ritualistic geomancy, she glimpses a black widow spider skirting the curb. She can relate. Her brain tree grows ominously close to critical mass.

A thought descends from heaven. A thought ascends from hell. A dream of many worlds awakes.

Lucifer kisses Judas. The tetragammatron whispers itself into itself into its wounded wound of winding self.

Love, she says. Love love love love love love love love love.

A penny falls from the moon. A moon falls into a fish eye. The penny becomes the vision of St. Paul

Nobody knows what you mean anymore, they say! St. Paul in a mall in the fall with a ball.

Everything condenses like words on a windowpane

Words w

Without meaning.

The black widow spider seems to be pointing with one of it’s legs in the direction of the Cathedral.

She follows the spider in slow motion through the downtown of the city.

It stops at the Cathedral.

Of course, like any true lovers of the divine lost in the dizzying presence of the probability of God, She and the Spider begin to send signals back and forth. Chemical whispers. Involuntary pheremonal symphonies. Symbolic shifts of body language. They dance. Atom by atom, they tango and waltz through the perfume of conscious melodies.

A thousand feet below their feet, the underworld is rocked in a series of tremulations.

Murder. Mayhem. Paranoia. Shame. Guilt. Sorrow.

Wacko Blacko Summa Deadhead Nervosia has assumed the role of the Dead King of Dead Kings.

Nothing for nihilists. Daylight ceases and desists. Everything dies again.

The wave of Zoe, the elopement of Uma into the eyes of Vishnu has been delayed.

Kali. Kali. Mantra gumballs. Eyes like Spanish galleons. Nonsense. Everything worked

Very well.

The Black widow is delighted. Very seldom does She cause death, prophecy and hypnosis in one day.



Through the hearts of Love City’s Vagabond Angels, Caroline circles the city in an eigenstate, giving birth to green skinned children that explode from her melting vagina mysteriously without warning. Tears fall from her eyes as her stillborn babies race toward the stained glass windows opening in the middle of the November sky.

The Vagabond Angels, their blood chemistry a cocktail of hallucinogenic elixirs, stumble on bloody feet through the razor blades of the artificial society. They curse and are cursed. Toothless, spinning out of control, wretched and starving, they bleed a million fantasies a moment through every pore of their flesh.

She herself, her face blessed by spittle and open sores, flooded with the rainbows of Memory, has become godlike. Wretched. Invisible. Insanely beautiful, yet absolutely perversely alienated.

At the age of 25 she earned a Doctorate in Microbiology. In the summer after graduation, she vacationed at the Great Pyramids, where in her hotel room, she immersed herself in Egyptian cosmology, began meditating on a Tibetan mandala all while smoking hash with a Turkish poet.

As the Turkish poet began singing the ecstatic poems of Rumi in several languages, she noticed her skin changing colors. At first she thought she was blushing. Then the pink turned to purple then to blue.

She looked in the mirror and saw in her place, a glowing blue being with twelve heads and twenty four arms.

She was struck mute by the experience. While the Turkish poet slept, She disappeared out of the room morning only to be found three days later wandering the streets of Cairo naked, being followed by a band of street musicians.

She was straightjacketed, tranquilized and sent packing back to Texas, where she was diagnosed as psychotic, drugged and released into the great meaninglessness of life spent begging for spare change between convenience stores.

In any case, her speech has become unintelligible, but somehow— in the eyes of teenage boys and old men, certain survivors of the Great Wars and anyone considered wise, she still effects the presence of Genius.

It’s her eyes. They are vanishing points of perpetual motion. As her pupils suck down your spirit, you can physically feel your flesh disintegrate, molecule by molecule.

At every moment, in their winks and blinks and narrowings and expandings, her eyes connect the dots of the spirit with everyone she meets. Her eyes are like needles, sewing time.

As she races across America, prostrating herself before all visions of the divinity that she encounters, while spending her days in the City Libraries studying Kabalah and DNA, she has created a mandala of super powerful dharma and compassion.

Creatures of the Sacred Taoist Liberation Front, a society so secret that nobody knows who is in it, recognize each other immediately, even should they be differentiated in species.

And so Caroline and the Black Widow Spider, both committed to the swirling divine, the pacifist clamor, the endless lovely poem of instant and perfect karma, begin to mentally dare each other into stranger and stranger behaviour.

The spider begins to breakdance. Caroline flips off a nun. Together they laugh.

The Spider knows she is safe. And so does Caroline. They approach each other as if they each were Mother to the Other.

This is the ancient secret wisdom of mind over Matter. Mind over Mother. It has been forgotten by the West.

What nobody realizes is that Caroline has not participated in the death of a living being in twelve years. She has eaten only vegetables and fruits, and somehow managed to dodge even the ants on the sidewalk.

Life, no matter how significant or small, or meaningless in the opinion of other beings, is a currency that cannot be devalued. Even the slightest unit of life, such as a fruit fly, has more worth spiritual worth than all the money in the world. Literally.

What Caroline knows is that death is contagious. Murder begets murder, and every artificial death destabilizes civilization and the biosphere until the critical mass is reached and complete murder erupts in the form of the bloodstorm of War.

Mankind has failed to comprehend a single spiritual lesson.

The fact that she is one of the leading candidates for Deathless Time Messiah, has irrevocably altered the order of her Soul in Space and Time.

Creation itself has triumphed in her cellular and spiritual substructure. The Universe wears her body as if it was a crown.

She is, despite her beauty and vulnerability, completely protected by every single atom in the Universe.

Nothing can harm her. She has transcended good and evil. She can hear the trees speak amongst themselves. She knows the nursery rhymes of cockroaches.

And every day, she grows more wild and free and impossible to understand or control.

Her hair is matted in dirty blonde dreadlocks, her skin is dark and luscious, her feet calloused and naked and stony.

At precisely 3:00 pm, as she dances madly to the chiming of the church bells, a social worker approaches her under the shade of the giant stone crucifix. She peers through the mist of her own consciousness, and as the social worker dissolves into a dozen formless apparitions, she finds herself momentarily transformed into a talking salamander in a Wedding a thousand miles from where she is actually standing.

It is an act of chemical disassociation coupled with an atomic probability fugue. Her consciousness detonates, exploding into a huge atomic gestalt a trillion miles wide. She can feel the trembling madness of jaguars bathing in the South American sun. She can see the blind pedestrian at the door of St. Patricks Cathedral.

All of this, as if her body and brain was a satellite dish. She remembers: in University, studying physics, she became impressed with the fact that at a certain level of existence, the known laws apparently stopped working and nothing was knowable.

It was her ticket into immortality. She began to find ways to escape into the lawlessness of the quantum level truth. Moment by moment, she deselected reality. Soon she found the door to this world with ease.

Soon, she forgot how to speak. Her very flesh became a window of creation.

She felt gazelles, moonlight, whiskey, cartoons, stirring in her skin. She set them free in the vault of her consciousness.

This is the delight of complete irrational and all consuming love of life and death and everything else. Hell makes sense. Hell is judgment and order and separation and law.

Earth is trapped between physical states. The entire history of man is an attempt to work out the maximum freedom with the minimum penalty. That’s life.

Heaven alone is perfect freedom. In heaven, anarchy is divine. The dream never ends.

Beyond good and evil and indifference, beyond sleep and life and death. A categorical and nearly unimaginable fourth state of being.

This revelation, distilled from the hallucinations, the meditations, the University Education, had turned her spirit inside out.

She began to fantasize about endless motion. She began to disappear from herself into huge swathes of randomnicity. Every footstep led deeper into a dream.

She married the Universe in the Wedding of Heaven and Hell. Her Soul presided over the ceremony in which she was both bride and groom.

Her voice, like the sound of a Saint screaming in the fire, became a daisy chain of glossolalia.

Passersby gawked at the insane precision of her madness.

She bowed down in front of the Godhead, which is one quark away from the edge of her own skull. She has become the Transcendental Priestess, carrying the earth on the tip of her tongue and the sky in her stomach.

She sings parables of rage under a halogen streetlamp. She pronounces herself wedded to the Christ. She fucks Buddha in the sewer. She. She. She.

As the bride and groom elope along a space time curve through the honeymoon funeral, and the heat of spiritual lust and endless desire forges her spirit into Cities of Imaginary Love, her pulse races through circuits of memory and isolation.

For 32,000 years she has laid hidden and buried like a ghost in the sunlight, licking her own wound in the flower dappled fields, disguised as starlight falling through the eyes of meditating dandelions.

Now the wave of eternity has crested in her birth as an imaginary being.

Houdini’s Tongue is licking the darkness of the Bermuda Triangle

Neptune’s neutron mouth explodes in the blackness of death and ink and the ocean tide.

Blueness looms in a school of Ouija boards falling from an azure tomb in the sky.

Iridescent memories of a Girl with Thirty Six million faces are born in the dream light of my electrolytic flesh.

Her face pivots on axons. Twirls through the medulla oblongata. Shimmies in and out of the occipital cortex.

I balance between answer and question, tilting in rhythms of history.

One foot in the distant past, the other disappearing into the future. What is the structure of time, I hear something ask.

God knows no God.

Electricity foams on my doppelganger’s mouth. The city twitches in it’s skin.

We arrive in soft explosions of antidreams.

It’s her theory — She — the one I love — that dreams are real.

I collide with ghosts inside a probability field as she turns toward the leper assassin lurking at the window. She kills it with her eye, icks her lips and falls into permanent orgasm.

White noise floods the western sky. The television falls into permanent insanity. The news anchor gets up, walks out of the screen and fucks you in the ass. You become pregnant with video.

Today, in the market, they are selling the ghosts of the dead. Ten trillion butterflies imported from a dying star.

I will go. A thousand lifetimes are waiting. I am dreaming in Japanese. Italian. Greek.

I look at the mattress on the floor. The dead man is breathing again. The soma is taking effect. Soon he will be granted ten, maybe fifteen minutes of life and then be gone forever.

I open his eye. It resembles the surface of a lake from your childhood.

The dead man twitches and reaches toward heaven as the rainforests collide in the neurons of the Baphomet.

Control is out of control. Control is heresy. Control is insanity.

A magician, having studied the mathematics of resurrection, falls like acid rain, staining the world with instantaneous paranoia.

His heart is a bomb of judgment and hatred, shackling the dream to cancerous love.

He paints the world with lasers of insanity and transcendental pointillism.

Skies evolve like newborn dreams.

A church self assembles around the decapitated head of the astronaut messiah.

Oceans rise in her eyes. Cities drip with freckles and wisdom.

Someone hacks the tetragammatron.

The fluted howl. The mouthless weep. A lover droops her useless spoon.

Antichrists evolve toward the Temple of Pi.

A dead God conquers Antarctica. Details whenever.

Catastrophes manifest in the flesh of the poor.

Ghosts experiment with color. Flesh is a fractal of sadness.

I found a doorway coded in the molecules of whispering vagabonds.

One by one, the drunken shrug; insects curl around her crown of thorns.

Pillowing anemone lisp toward indeterminate heaven.

Languid arms wrap themselves around the host of the unreachable God.

A parasite screams in the unholy void.

I dwell in the Palace of Fractions Fractaled in Fact and Fiction. I find faces trapped in the flood.

People fuck me into the tomb of paranoia.

I watch like God from eyes that nobody sees.

Moment after moment the night licks wounded apparitions into puzzles of sleep.

It is as if none of us exists until after they’ve written our funeral songs.

Civilization — the dream of the Unreal — ripples with the mirror image of memory.

How many extraordinary madmen have gone numb to the treacherous chant of time in their decaying teeth?

Antonin Artaud reminds me of the cockroach of Heaven.

In a moment, his eyes fall toward the messiahs ovum, hidden inside the revolutionaries honeycombed vagina.

She becomes deathlike under auspices of glowering midnight.

Our flesh dances like razors in a baby’s fist.

I slide my tongue into the architecture of God’s uterus cathedral.

Blood rises like music in the bowels of heaven. Dissonance is freedom.

Mock angels trip down alleyways of karma.

A strange girl bathed in artificial light.

Fiction grows in the dead heat of time. Poets multiply like angel gorillas.

The city is tainted blue with a feverish hint of the future escaping through unwritten laws.

There are systems of thought unknown to the world bathed in fear and normalcy.

The great madness cloaks itself in ordinary being.

Like the Prophet of Nihilism, obedient ghosts worship a silence multiplied by the delusion grown in the history of immortal beings.

Twelve fisherman moons shoot down a fool in love with the lost language of time.

Reality explodes under an eyelid tinted in truth’s poisoned flesh.

The city shrieks in salvation’s last madness along an infinity’s dream colored curve.

The brain is an umbilical cord.

I look at her face. It is crystalline. A moon petal.

A wave of consciousness sweeps from horizon to horizon. Insects begin stirring like zen masters.

I whisper an ancient syllable.

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