Christopher Arnett: Engraved A Jet Plane

Christopher Arnett

Engraved a Jet Plane

opcode press

Christopher Arnett Engraved a Jet Plane Copyright (C) 2013 Christopher Arnett All Rights Reserved

Cover by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen

opcode press FINLAND 2013

First, a prison. In womb giggle discoveries and ethereal existence. Above all things and descending into destiny, invisible and filled with laughter and chatter. Bars around this womb. A window with closed blinds leaks slivers of bar light through. Pure gold they shined. Hands flapping like unusable wings, face not yet found in time and knowingness. Another house. Smaller and more unknown than the other. So lost and so fresh on this planet. No sex to speak of. Arguments outside. Faint fleeting memories of ascending ramps with freshly clipped nails. Sister eating her pillow alive. The fence outside hovers below many small crescent moons.

A languid tide of night and bliss. A new house is to come. Will these be remembered? These stones upon which my infant feet stand. Shall I know them again? The wash. The water flows down with clusters of muck. Come now, little man with the grey beard. So wise, wisest of all. Come now. A new home awaits. Sideways, I believe. The wash abandoned. The road sends you up with neighbors silhouetted against blue skies so painted pasture blue.

Darker still than imagination can withstand.

A new place. Walk around the bars and hold still to the moonlight. Ha. I can’t recall a better moonlight. An early land with building blocks hiding me.

In caverns, oubliettes, I waited. Pink were the walls. Made of cardboard and paint. Xylophone twitches serenade outer space, which orbits this mind lit cave of childhood assembly. Quick little ladies of infant material blurred past.

Who were they? Why were they here? Could I see them any better? The kingdom crumbles and the rubber duckies fall.

Bubbles and bathtub mist. Lights dim and flickery, as if flame but rather bulb magic. Hibernate! Hold still! Don’t remember a single thing! Next comes accidental scat in the waters. Twas not your intention. Hide beneath battleships the size of true cruise liner span. Oceans so large and you larger than! Bells of twilight memory in eye sockets, oh how blue. I can’t recall there being any mind mishaps. I can’t feel anything. Not a single thing in or through me.

Remember that kid who saw your dick? He grabs to the walls and screams not to be yanked from the breast his elderly self partakes. The mother quivers and sands down to pebbles. Down the gutters of engagements she goes. The carpet is soft. The alphabet is hummed. Again and again. The autumn leaves were pointed at with veiny fingers filled with knowledge blood. Unquestionable in logic and fine fiddling. Conducting us in line is a color of powdered wig past. So fluorescent in disguise with chisel board scratches.

The baby days. Oh the baby days. I have no such recollection of the baby days in bird swallow spirit. Flying in response to the ever so slight absurdity of petite stimuli shiver ha ha! Let your mind go kid. Your ear will turn red from yanking away from doorways. Embarrassment shall ensue from lava steaming entrails left behind still inside.

Ancient memory. Holding glass. Holding glass of an eternity before last.

Dragged into hula hoops in the homegrown baby thoughts. So young and with hidden straight massage intention. Photographs beneath the privilege, sticking out with grandfather garage sale hands pulling out from love. Look at the colors! The gestures! Such beautiful photos! Of slimy smiles!

Caterpillars of tender delicate form and texture. Noses circle and simple. Tails in flame balls, so teeny. So cute. Never something as good as this.

It glows. So luminescent. Shining twinkle high above clouds of night sky. So beautiful and high above the rest. I can’t spell out the hidden truths yet. Come, let us slime sliver like magma slugs down the way, my chum. I hide horribly still in the horror. Oh how wonderful it is to watch! Mother in bed with yogurt in response to lava boil trickle snail slime trails left behind.

Behind. Behind.

Reviewing the bald kids noggin. Laughing with him. Not at him. Corners of flower laced hallways are kids with steam moist hot in collateral hexagon struggles. Key chains with addition. Keychains with subtraction. The doom of division behind the corner. I can’t hold still for this long. My hand shall hold the space ship of outsold special variety. With salesmen smile and semen spilling from every pore. No, this will not do. Into the corner you go. Point at your magma friend though. Point at him with lazer beam fire blasts. Sizzle in this moment of intimacy. Our play outmatches the laws. A pillow fight within the little homes between feathers on great birds, so high. We discover one another. We remember why we see the trains on our ceiling. We discover the little robots that life has to offer. Sucked under the bridge every now and again, into older memory still. Sunsets of small memory so vague and crystal with smoldering tangerine.

Arguments with papa on the beach. Forgiveness and hugs. Fountains of celebration between every crashing wave in held tight memory snip snap recall. Tornado of vast memory became pipe dream. Wet dream. Tickles down there. All the way down. Trillions of miles deep. Descend with flickering light of secrecy. Descend and descend some more. Light. Bioluminescence.

Candlelit bliss. Tickling. Masturbating. Fall further now. Into a pit of slime far below the earth’s crust. Far below hell as well.

A new location in the forgotten terrain of fallen firefly spark light forever. I’ve never quite felt like this before. There is a line of flem holding together this mightiest of webs. In the box are many books. Upon the cover is frowning eggyolk. In this yolk dances I, naked. Wonder now, wonder what it was. A girl with sliding glass lips reveals her tongue tail. Purple and plump, it tangles the young boys in confusion and a slime found below crushed bumblebee shoes. Who is laughing now?

Come, young friend. Come and marry me down here in the cold. You take her by the hand and hide below the fort. The candle flickers cold red flame. Your heart throbs with original sin. The baptized fluid sweats from your face and massages her shoulders. Oh how I wish you had lizard eyes and corn snake tongue. You’d smile like a baby would smile and I miss my womb.

Come, tickle with me in memory. Play below the time of bridges. Did the kid have one eye or two? Be with that kid now. There were toys in hand. Drop them now. Fuck me. Fuck me forever.

Hop back upon the lucid pool of beautiful young boy pee. It flowed free.

I flowed with hands yellow stained in blue shining sinks of free liquid. I fall apart into little bitty pieces but another train ride down the way sends me to my feet again. Smell my spirit, grandma. I’m a baby boy and I won’t know the impurity of my shit. Stains and smears upon surfaces. Smell most foul and teeming with unsure and restless flies of clean solipsistic thought. This was your thought. Clean with stains of clean fecal minerals. Almost like comets in the shared bathtub waters. Sister smiling and hiding behind the steam once more. She wrote of a bubbling man of purple ooze. Oh how that tickled my piss.

Further back still, in another frozen gel in cup time. The glacier so frozen and dormant in your shoulders. Many young children of the orient crowd around and gaze in fancy. Twitching fingers type these words. Through time and space my mind flies. A torturous entertainment of tomfoolery. Keep with your twitching! A darker cloud above the baby days head now. Of what kind? Of the living kind. So alive is he living kind. So never ending in falling backwards. It appears as though I’m still completely. There were some who were quite friendly.

The frozen time still sits on perpetual tides of heating bubbling motion down rivers with rock so orange and snoring. Orange soars down upon praying manifestations before me. There were poles of blue. The water fountains nearby are rigid with exploding whirlwinds of ether soaked nostalgia. Remember remember the baby days.

I was ordered to tie my shoes. The door was open and the hand was scooping expectant air out and about on the town of doubt. We spoke, amongst these bars. Do you not have the slightest memory? Superbugs. The bugs rose in fashion above all living things. The center of focus. A man of V descent. He prayed upon the bugs, so super. They hid beneath their beds.

The serials spoke of the dreams of such. The bobcats behind tents and the sinister doves. Oh how spooky. The goosebumps popped from beneath our eyes. The heat of electric liquid shiver is ultimate in my soul. Something proclaimed. New things announced. Sight was to be made. Visions.

Something new. An audience for my laughter and my screams. A collective of those who held within them only just years before the lambency of womb glow grumbles. Oh the fingers are in motion with the know. I must perform a show tonight. There are cinnamon sparks and ginger reflections in the chimney sweep Christmas. The glitter of such an occasion in the baby eyes, illumed and made crystal through anti matter spouts.

The hands creeped from my sleeves like snail eyes protrude from bubble base snail shells. Up and outside. Split in two by a happy glorified head. There was a steamy afterglow in the astronaut view down below onto the earth, where the puppets danced. The stage falls down to the prop hell haven. The light on all those before you. Beeps of camera machinery on tripods shooting beams of clothing like spider silk from spider bum. Beacons of light in the crowd. Cheer this way. Cheer that way. Cheer in a circle now.

Let me move my hands for you. Why not all of this? How about some of this?

I can’t perceive a better time ahead. Not in my head. Not in this end. There were many bulls in memory.

Only colors, actually. The very fundamental aspect of social culture within fragrant bliss kisses from bugs whose hisses transcends the z. A sleep most deserved. Never yet, though. My decision is now to cheat until I fall upon my bed once more. Shine on me, oh recollection, veiled in foggy fathom blast captures. The drunkard blast of autumn’s baby twilight brings no understanding to your drunkard baby head. I shall move my hands this way and that. The blurs turn to colors most powerful and mine! So very much and undeniably mine. The audience shall insist on the grandeur of this. I inist the joy is coming in circular wave patterns. Bubbles filled with you holding tight to vials of you are but tadpoles in the semen that is to be in coming years.

Metaphysical forgetfulness. By night I would lose the gravity of plight.

Lifted from my infant feet into the infant air. Life but on a string of fluid linearity. The pipes sound their beautiful spouts as you doze off above church scribbles. Motionless was I. I am caught up in moments here and there. Oh, if only the spinning wasn’t so very vague in spinning fleeting thought, so fleeting. Hallucinations at such a young age. The earliest dreams dreamt.

The earliest nightmares moistening your bed with liquid so large and flammable! Ouch! A new and exciting land awaits. Hold off for just one moment. Here, audience, some colors. Here you go me, colors. You are all me.

I creep up on you with lights, oh audience. Let me just move my hands to the left here. Let me just tangle my fingers in the swamp of misty half closed eye memory. So close to be so large. My feet were houses of attention. Inside were eyes, attentive. Pools of water was my psyche in the baby days. Here is I as spectrum mashed potatos. There was something rare.

Gosh how can I even remember this? There is too much time trickling away from my fingers during this show. This spectacle of wit and majesty. My hands in motion. The people in awe. I twist inside out like invertebrate magic.

So much magic, like sparkling cockroaches whose breath is static with bolts of silver. Bursts of silver and winter so unusual. I can see the sun again in my eyes. The backdrop fades before me and the foreground lights up to the sound of sleigh bells hitting hard and vibrating energetically. On the thick walls, trickling like tree sap, was my awareness. Who knows what I knew then.

You can depend on being at peace again in slumber once the time ticks this charade to a glorious end. There shall be payoff. Walking to and fro and thinking of this payoff is my fate. No actual action. No action taken. Attrition alone. Motionless like stillborn amphibian with sex secrets.

You smile with a bow and the curtains close. Mosquitos suckle them from red to black, these curtains. They grow plump and heavy and struggle upon the floor to take flight again. The blood within them smolders with plight ember. In the wings I turn to silent prayer and feel the rotary telephone plagued with dust. Spider webs all around. The wings were soon to be for me. It was to be regular. Crying and moaning and wishing for smiles high above the miles I walked so willingly. Is there a better way to bless the morning? Is there a better way to bless it?

Applause in the crowd. This is to be expected, ladies and gentlemen.

The cameras watch the every knuckle crackle behind parental flesh. The isles shine light upon their wrists, so wounded and lost. One false move can send them sizzling on the frying pan. Locked in a cabin with smoke billowing from sorrow’s inferno windows. The churchgoers stretch their shirts to hide the sweat stains on their thighs. Odors suspiciously detected. I though am greeting sunrise in the quiet wings. My family shall find me soon. They have found me. This was my synesthesia attack.

That there are still no thoughts on narrow strings. No goes the gasoline spirals of diversion. Sniff it, hide away in suicidal shadow behind the salivating night. Dry is the spit. Mold and crust and jellyfish jism. Hold me down and strangle me to death, oh forgetfulness. Where have the memories gone? Only but vague sparkles in rotting fish flesh. Eyes lifeless, as though they are alive. No change. Only matter on it’s way to nihil boulevard.

Vanquish me, oh tarnished sin. I have not held you yet but yet the crowning of thorns cracks upon my skull by turtles of red and mathematics. The multiplication and the division falls off the roof and shatters upon the ground with glass shattering and the children in delirium. Hold me now in this brief end, must you evade and make like the scolded banquet hall. Eve is eve.

Hold me. I am falling from thought. Spinning still in vague memory of baby days and early vivid conundrums and moons. Hide me. I am falling. The whirlpool gobbles me up like an eternal swamp of greater sorrow but nonetheless what?

Mad with livid tarnation, just descend and forget. Fingers hurting from type type typing. Continue still comfort zone reflections are but faint now in pineapple sparkly high. High up in the sky with turquoise jets of blue behind.

Yellow in their thought. Hungry. Hungry for plastic. Hold still now.

You are forgetting the task at hand. Remember remember the memories that unfurled before your infant eyes.

Bars. Vertical. Hanging down, blue like the slime of heated blue.

Lipstick warn and kissing with sex smooches. You and your chum, with arms in the air whistling of the spy brothers and the super bugs. Legends of the letter V. Stabbings in the eye out of bloody curiosity. The knives are licked clean in secret. Walking back and forth like snakes traveling through

roundabouts of shadow. Spin and ricochet. Drop the hullabaloo and make the like the evening. After all, the evening is coming!

“You are a filthy liar! You can’t read a book that fast! Stop turning the pages like you speed read! Partake in the tellings of the snowman, most alive and lucid. In the bleakest environment you’ve ever seen, he stands and stretches and gurns the deep evil of childhood startle value. Cha ching. The words protruded like goosebumps from flesh. Beware little one, of the snowman. Ice and sparkling crystals of ancient fashion. Vanish vanish vanish” Who spoke these words? None other than the blemish on the bean bag chair. The boil that needs popping. Pop. Blood. Screams. You rejoice. This was transmitted to you by the data signals that ate away at the sky. The light shows of seizure shivers of all colors, synthesized in the laboratories of the Aztec emperors. Playing their ancient drums and hearing their heart pump out of vine veins. The demiurge has been banished. Time moves too quickly through these transmissions. You are told to kill! Kill! Kill the blemish! You poke him in repose! Rapture is the glistening isles bambie bambie I’ve been may. Oh blisters, shatter. Anger weakens the will to follow the train of thought. Monkey monkey laugh laugh laugh. Take me to the bubble bath.

Sister there, nude and slivered. The snail slime basks in it’s sex moan squiggles. Purple goo monsters are what you become. This is me talking here. Not you. Fight me to the death, reader. I fuck you when the leaves fall far far afar ha! Spanish is the hidden gem from which you grab and which I slumber with day and night. Day and night smells so nice with the feathers.

The pigeon feathers, sticky in semen. Delicate and flat. Moist like gelled hair.

Supernovas foresee it in their early days. It was meant to be, gelled hair.

The passage of time! This all occurs in the passage of time!

My goodness. Thought can go every which way. Here I am, writing these words. I look ahead and there they are, appearing before me in this time. Remembering my youth with no forethought finger dancings depicts but the necessity of pure thought in relation to the old thought. The baby days were long ago. The thoughts have been abstracted through time. From a dream to a dream within a dream to another dream still and down this line forever to the omega and then beyond that still. Forever is longer than forever. Forever is forever. Forever is now.

As my brain has aged, as the solipsism waned and ebbed back in my head, taking astray children and puppy dogs out to the treachery of the deep blue sea. The chaperone scalps herself in grief and fear. The horror has been revealed to her. This hurts in my mind. The children’s waves of nutty dream vagueness were so ethereal and so beautiful. Such a blissful thing to enjoy such pleasure. Now, you shall be taught the wrath of these liquid infant’s mothers. Holding broomsticks of blood and playing fiddle with your demise.

Coming in the form of lions, tigers, mosquitos, tapeworms, and the school board. This which I write shall be one big salivation from a sighing mouth, smiling with wrinkles, kissed and incinerated and thirsty and free. With desire so strong as to dismantle any king crown. With this desire, I persist. It is

painful. It is incapacitating. It is distracting this desire. Oh how pungent it is at all times. Reddening your upper thighs with red paint, so atmospheric and illusive. Cyberspace on your mind, transmitted to you from acid melt cassettes of popular culture, the vomit of the spheres. Words are a disease.

A plague. A virus. A monster. A terror. Terror like the clock. Held together by fear and assumption. Fractions that fall apart with the help of tectonic plate scrapes. Ow my ears. Fractions fall apart. Without them, the stars shall never kiss us. All suns but ours but pinholes to the heavens. All of earth’s religions peer through with eyes of torquoise blue and smile. Champagne is spread like the spector of flowers among bee feet. Fuzzy and pollen stained. I am a speck.

Love me, oh lord on high! I must touch my finger to yours. So close yet so far. The blue sky only inches above me. I reach my hand and touch air, not surface. The spiders walk sillouetted across the blue sky. Clouds they are, black and clogged with rain. Dripping with tears of sponge squeeze woe.

Helicopters in the heat waves appear as moths of satan’s din. Welcome to the place that is hidden and lost. Welcome to the earth. This is where you shall stay. You shall not travel far.

No! I must! I must reach the heavens! They are not in every blade of grass I see! That is nonsense! Grass is grass. Nothing more. Fuck that. Hide me from that. Sanctuary! Hold still and don’t look sad. Don’t look happy. Look at me. Take me in. Let me melt on top of you. Let me slice your head open and parade in your guts like common maggot platoons. There descends a man of gentle valor. A man of gentle valor indeed. He knows fractions quite well. He writes words with tight precision. Adhesive does not drip, but stays flawlessly intact like on tape. The bugs struggle to be free. This proves fatal.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

I should kill bugs again.

No. hold tight to the thought like fractions. That is what he does and that is what I must do. Another does it. I must do it then. Nothing new and original.

Drop dead.

No! Let go! There Is never death if you let go of life. It doesn’t exist.

Your soul is illuminated brighter than any sun, but at once, it is dark as blackest void and without opinion. Through this mingling of dark and bright, death dissolves into nothing. I must let go of him. I must let go of the other. I must let go of the fractions. They must fall apart. The grass is the heavens. I need not build a spaceship and touch the stars with my fuck wanting tongue.

Never, for they are here for me to lick.

And then, despite the reluctance of others, he licked the grass. The bugs ran in fear. Clock terror is after them! They know not that it smiles too.

Lick. Lick. Lick. Lick.

These famined fingers shall write on. The fractions have been let go. It is time to lose clarity. The only way to pursue truth is to pursue absurdity. Life is too explosive to be comprehended by formula. The babies drink the

formulas so the divine knows how the body works. The temple must be assessed before it is lived in. Let the fuck go.

What came next? Flex hexegon and the I don’t know but follow follow follow me and wait until the hollow bees of greater noon will come to me with limabeans and courted cortisans. Fontanel fondling and still birth coma shavings. I don’t have a first name. but swallow me without finger and their corresponding nails. Drop into the rainbow gristle with me. There are so many swallows of Norton filth. Five dollars and gravy hires me oh no look I can see the moonlight.

The cantankerous lemons of rye are tight. The bugs smolder in red hot frost. The bugs circle one another in harmony. The flies fall in unison. I beg for my life, but you hold it from me like a witch holds screaming frogs above the bubbling broth of stew, most haunted. The apparitions flee to the sulfur seas you shall come to know so well. Flowing with explosions and videos flaring with patriotic hymns. We have the destructive earth. Our bright green and orange water smells of rotten eggs and organic belchings. Happy birthday. There were so many people inside of me. I was nobody but a shell filled with frantic balloons. Marker drawn faces of demented smiles and angry grins. Teeth disjointed yet firmly present like columns of dead junkyard claws. Cockroaches convulse and fall apart all around with this. With what?

With the video films of followed forearms. Foretelling the bug gatter bug of Hollywood. Fall down and fall down and ho my piano and if nothing can persist, then the lemons ough to miss the trampoline. Lean cuisine of fine sheen and oh look at it gleam. Bogs and boils over a busted buster battery fluster clusterfuck hustler fuck fantasy gusher. Hat, it’s me! Oh look at them fuck. It falls out of straw with dementia. Mentioned above. Something about that. Fall off, numerator. Fuck off and die. Tee hee. Victory for me that surpasses everything my master told me. Haha!

Enjoying the rhythm? Work it! Tango!

Hide the whips in the jars of tips. If you do not forget me in the silent winter, the summer shall emerge explosive with ferocity. Wretched velocity, shelter me with warm sarabande duels. Times of wasting are times aplenty.

Oh how fun not having words are! So young, these thoughts are nonexistent.

Only lighting void with a soft glow of wordless lagoon crystal. So delicate and transparent. The townspeaople are seen on the other side, under the light bulb stars, stained with sizzling dragonfly guts. So old and so in ruins are the kingdoms upon these organs. The infinite sky above holds still in their game of galactic jumprope. No eyes upon it’s neverending charade of sloppy, jewel encrusted recreation. The stars sing the song of futily, under these wordless thoughts, tattooed with words by a mind most document fucking. The song sounds not with trumpets and clarinets. Rather, the song sounds with extraterrestrial hooplah, all unanimously agreed that the question why is for the flies. Are we such flies as to question why? These hands that type with stalagmite phallus, so excited by the absolute truth that the feathers from above tickle thigh jungles with sponges squeezing behind boulders of moss.

The fire is extinguished. For a moment, the smoke and their corresponding signals sizzle into moist nothing void for a moment now.

The thesis of my words, like screaming snails begging for one last reach towards sunlight life, emerging from their shells with bubbly slime, wounded by gravel and loss, eyes scathed with salty sea breaths, exhaled from fucking the skies on high with blue most swallowed and eggs most hived. The bugs, they smile, with teeth, wide guiles! Hide me, soft me, serenade trolly!

The thesis of my words hold tight to the flag pole. Below the waters crash and mingle like cannibal moths of sailor’s lament! The graveyards thick with tombs of those lost in such seas have no bodies in them. Only photographs and trinkets and flowers and semen. The corpses, the actual bodies of these sunken ship scallywags, float as the shit of the giant abyss mongrels. Hold tight, my thesis, your marrow shall freeze and turn to divine glass, most silver and pristine, like gorbechev’s limousine. Wheels that glide along soft tracks of light in the garden of eden, so overjoyed with sodomy and bloodshed. Picture sodomy to yourself now, the licking of the asshole, the penetration curved and knived, carving shoes of eggs within mommy tummy. Stillborn smiles and handshake grievances. The cold is getting to you, my unspoken thesis. Hold tight, and do not let the night freeze thee. Oh blasted moon, in thy truculent introversion! Spin away and bring the sun shining via an invisible rope of twine. Let the earth be fathomed again as solid. Thesis, warm! Thesis, speak! Please! Please! Fleas count me. Hold to me. If the romance is just in france, let the makeshift hide appear spick and span, in pans of sauce and beans and trickling moss jade balls of slut gore giggling. Here and there and everywhere are diamonds and jewels of goblims and ghouls. The schools of thought are seldom taught that the belly of a fish is the dying wish of the grief struck man in the flying clam of jacking off bliss with spikes that miss his pivitol veins, oh so much pain, with the tissue expands the astral rape hands. So cold! So very cold! The fingers of my thesis begin to slip and prune to malnourished elderly time manifestations.

So old. So white haired. So nose speckled. All speeches but gasps of chewed food squandering. Faltering speech! Abide by the elements! Hold on!

The thisis of my words is to remove words from words. Inside of words lies no message. Only symbols. Figures modeled like clay finger salads with dressing so cruel and the dogs, how they drool. If by forgetting, we see nothing more than the symbols again, how can one heed of my screams?

How can the sperm trickling inside of me like jam tadpoles sweat through my pores and impregnate myself within your soggy sex brains? Where are words when words fall from words? When the scaffolds break and the humanity, with their sponges and window washers, descend into davy Jones’ Locker, who shall hold tight to the scriptures and know of my ejaculate thought, procreating myself in others so I may never die. I grasp to infinity hoping I may kiss it always, but my lips shall rot and the worms shall partake.

Delicious still are my lips, but I’ll never know of that nonsense again. Why is it then that my thesis stands to remove words from words? Words have

entangled you. Sentences and quotes and diatribes and epitaphs and telegrams and letters of recommendation have entombed you and locked you within the catacombs, among skulls who express nothing, covered in graffiti that express fucking and trucking and supposedly everything. We hold tight to our words as a spider holds tight to her web. Marvelous design of grandeur and precise sheen. Silk so sensitive in hurricane winds. Delicate, too delicate. Waving like flags of nihil exxageration over ships at sea, oblivion sea.

With our words, we catch a wee fly or two. Convulsing for dear life as we kick restlessly, dangling off the side of the golden gate bridge. The spider nibbles. Yum yum is the fly. The bullets fire. Here and there are ricochet shrapnel. OH dear Christ, save us! We use our webs to send our message to you, oh lord. Deliver us from the bullets! Deliver us from the gunpowder!

Deliver us from villainy! Deliver us! Dear Christ, who hovers over us through words, send us and our words to the heavens to spend our word eternity within our word bliss. Bliss oh bliss oh bliss oh bliss.

I surrender myself. No more. The purging begins. Beyond the fingers that clash and point like torpedoes who laugh and get their fingers lost in the pubic hair plumes below. So very far below. The hundreds of hangnails that I have returned to the soil, now but dust, return to me again. Every last drop of blood. Every last pillow stained with tears and saliva. Every last morsel of food I vomited through my teeth, mimicking a firework crackle caught in time upon the pavement of cough medicine design. Every smell I have smelled and recall smelling is sacrificed to you. Immolation without breaths taken. My life after having been shot between the eyes. Oh yes, I forgot to mention, I am dead. Dead as a post. In the woods I was shot. My brains trickling down the stream. Tendrils, who all bloomed magnificent flowers, crawled under my fingernails and housed many microcosms.

Bugs bathe in my words. My thesis. There was this dream. Don’t remember when. The sky was a copper red. You know, the burning shade against those smells? I’m sure you’ll recall, that sulphuric aroma that swallowed your pronounced veranda. Speak to me of those smells. Oh speak to me. Speak to me, speak to me. Cauliflower, wet, oh so very wet if you ask me.

The eyes down in their gaze, the sidewalk is lit. The sun shines black as volcanic rock without those fatigued eyes. A hissing metronome, mist projects from the sprinklers. Dirt turns to mud. The ants are slowly swept from their feet. The veins deep down inhale deeply. The grass greens. The tombstones flat on the earth, all obscured by boggy liquid glass. The fading names fade an iota more. The cemetery is as a sponge. The fluid meets the road. Pine needle remnants, made heavy by sap globules, are pushed along.

Dense with wretched quantity, a show of sight ensues. Never waning in pace, these sticks, so sticky, turn in an instant to Aztec peyote frogs, dressed in pristine royal armor. Dismantled upon birth, gone in the sniff of the nose. The eyes above, with octal veins throbbing like hyperventilating puffer fish, transmit a pissed order to their fingers of malign vigor. The first smashes this

display. The water bursts up. When the comet plummets into the ocean blue, a likewise scenario will tick here and away.

Ravaged and fervent, the eyes closed. The king of these eyes takes wasp stingers to his gums and rearranges his teeth, hoping to mitigate his aching jaw. What is life without a little diversion? Tissue is not diamond. It ruptures just like that. The king’s chin descends and the flow takes it away.

Bloody, the upper cheeks dangle like fresh hanging bore hides. He screams, but the dead hear nil. Tongue hung like a chandelier of rare steak, the terror sends the eyes to tears. Reflecting in those tears is the horizon. The volcano erupts again. All is black and dry and the rainbows made all better.

Then suck dry, deep and dirty half o’ faxing in the sirloin eyes of splendor. Such feet surpass my countess shoes. Hold tight to countless peas, please for stop drop counting lops in the trademark couch potato aardvark fitowitz. I lose sight of you again, in menstrual juncture, I smile like the Raoul Stockholm syndrome fabriek. Loose machinery in fortified hybrid donkey duck duck in swallowed forklift driver sends his gratitude to your flesh, so caressed and tongue expanding wide. Wide. Wise. Harpinger cracked the wild Schaeffer. Die. Wide. Die. Not unless we play the wild boogey.

Pipe drops down into the rabbit hole. Never touching the sides, always dormant and centered. The world leaves us again. The smoldering hashish goes deep. Soil runs far and solid. I won’t deny you this Mandie, but I will have to hopscotch high. Deep and smelly like entrails in the wait for corridor.

I am an igloo of wait. Shaving in retrospect. Hold tight to mollusk capers. I can’t believe my words, yet here they lie. Sprinkle my ashes on the dead man’s brow. My life will soak in and converse with the dispending disembarking tissue amidst. Gallivant with hurtling horny hoodlums. The man who sweats the job. I’ll do it scott free. Hey foy swan. Sparrow will widen when the hill toppers fall from the depths into transmitted in the sincerest form of hanky panky fall under Eiffel tower watch.

“Fireflies don’t travel this deep.” So said the evoked scientist of the expedition.

Illuminated by nothing but these flying insects of lambent glow, he sits upon a humid stone within the sulphuric stenched caverns deep below the ocean soaked crust. All of the pots and pans of the expedition clang and clatter all around him, ravaging his thought, piercing his mind. Their candles have burned out. Their caged birds all dead. The treasure maps point down.

Down. Furthur down. The map bearer scurries to and fro like a sporadic moth, trying desperately to catch the firefly amidst the darkness.

“Which way? Which way? Cries he. His voice resonating off the cavern walls and shadows.

Stalactites shiver. The belching mouths of channels every which way.

The heads of the treasure hunters pulse heavy and dense in feverish lament.

This cave is a blackened heart. The clergyman paces restlessly. His feet tender and crucific missing, he picks the cave scarabs off his shoulders.

“Still not clean. Still not clean.” Says he, in C

Oceano! Squeeze! Pitbulls rage and purge. Glycerin is a rare piece of meat to them. A sparse and seldom bone, so dry, in the junkyard black.

Spices upon the flesh of these words. So thick that the seasoning enshrouds the moist tan, gleaming with life and photosynthesis. We bloom. We bloom.

Read on. The hypnagoia sings on. Oh the hypnagogue.

Pismo!

A brief lapse. A quick tumbling into the blurred eye sphere.

Sharpness dissolves and blurriness prevails. I cannot continue. Bliss reigns supreme in this ethereal hullabaloo.

The places we aim to hide reveal us. There is always somebody assessing you, isn’t there? Always one wlaking about with watchful eyes.

Always a sinner damning you. Such complacency. Such conspiracy. Such a terrible rotten conspiracy festering to and fro like a stinky hyena. Oh but it will be fine. A ok. Just depend on it working. The inevitable means the certain. That’s just common sense. Definition. You are never alone. I speak the inevitable. I am your god. Among mortals I am. Who is I? Why, none other than a symbol. All there are here are symbols.

The thesis! Ah yes the thesis. All you see here are symbols. Symbols matching sounds, slurs of the jaw. Chatter of buskers. The cock barks of pyrotechnics.

Morro! Morro!

These symbols dance and sing and expand your mind. Expanding your mind now is the delirium. The bridge between the waking world and the world of dream. The thesis of my words is to flow in that realm of existence.

My is a skyscraper, not any human being. You are alone. Nobody is speaking to you. Your nerves are whispering the shouts of my nerves. My… Me oh my.

My nerves and your nerves mingle like awn. Vigorous awn. Here we are together. Let us squish the gods with our fingers. Let us melt the kingdoms with our blood. Let us boil the oceans with our grins. Let us paint the planets with our feet. Let us moisten the jungle with our wit. Let us shatter limbo with our sex. Let us explode stars with our gaze. Let us spin the galaxies with our minds. Let us. Let us. Let us. Let us! Let us! Let us! We are connected through the imagination. Our imaginations are parallel. Anything is possible when you share the realm of dreams. For there is only one place where dreams happen. Our souls walk to the same neck of the woods and flow in the absolute of thought. The labyrinth becoming a straight line.

The expedition never ends. Never ever ever ends. Into the earth’s mantle we all descend. Further down. Down. Down. Down. Down.

Decay. Utmost decay. Smoldering hot decay. But yet here I am in an airplane of magnificent proportion. The size of a dollar bill! Rubber ducks wince in lament. They are small. So very small and hodge podged. I can’t breathe no more. No longer. Defeated is I. The words cease. Mushroom clouds ensue.

The terrible aint so terrible when you cease and desist. Attrition is colder than you know. There is a better man than myself. On and on I go. On and on I go! Furthur down the path, a jellyfish shall come. He will come through perilous rain and sleet and snow. He will annihilate your warmth and never

die. Never ever die. Drink water slowly. Savor the flavor. Won’t you? Hold on tight my dear. My lonesome teasure in the Sudan. The south Sudan. Murder unter mort. Vodka bubbles spewing from the earth itself. Lemons lemons lemons. Haha! Here here. Let the magistrates maturate. There is still hope.

Hold to it!

The air was complete. We stretched like lions of the sun. The morning was the most succulent in many full moons. Blue moons. A long while is declared All of the heart did it. All of the heart erupted like sails over vessels.

All of me ruptured. I am yours. I take my coffee with cream. So much. Such quantity. There was nothing ever. I am dead. Orange peels laugh and decompose me like a decrescendo in a wagner piece. I am one with them.

Capricorn cornucopia. Say it with her. Delicious fruit of Fall Equinox with flying saucers and channeled words from Christ and krsna all dead or in markets. Lit by the buzz of man. Buzz buzz buzz. There is a universal elixir.

It’s inside. Reptiles ejaculate it, but normally it stays inside. Inside my soul and inside my eye, giving me a show of sight and sounds. It is the sea. A potion that spans miles. The sea of perception, our gills are sewn shut. Our lungs are dead dry yet cold via abyss black and mean tundra cold! That’s chilly! People are trained not to smile! It’s true. I see it when I beg. I beg quite a bit. I beg now. Keep it up.

And then I and my were no longer symbols. The thesis was sucked up into a blackhole. I and my dies.

In one hand, you grasp the open skeleton of a once lavish, turquoise umbrella, and in the other you hold a match flickering with a small yellow flame, which you use to get a quick glimpse of where you have found yourself. It’s your last one and it’s dimming to a dim blue, but for a jiffy or two, you see your present sphere. A large, cobweb dressed playhouse of a time long since gone. A baroque, decorated time when the trees grew from the hands of the alchemists, architects, and plague-ridden clergymen and gave forth God’s succulent fruit. A time when you heard distant fluting in every direction and the crows had human faces, blushing pink with powdered wigs and moles.

Standing erect in the dusty, bone-ridden orchestra is a wall of some magnificent proportion, made from countless particles of sand. You know what this means. Standing there in the great dark, you look ahead at the wall veiled in black, made moving only by the chemicals brewing behind your eyes. A rumbling is heard and you can hear the fop chandeliers shivering and shaking overhead. You loose the sense of touch in your buzzing feet as the inevitable begins. You know what lay beyond the wall of sand, decorated in the shit of the sleeping bats hung upon the ceiling. It was the shattering centipedes, moving faster than humming bird wings flapped. You recall them. Recall them now, in the darkness. Recall what they’re after.

What are they after? You hold it in your hand. The match? That slipped from your fingers and disappeared into the shadows forever more. It’s the umbrella. They’re after the umbrella. Will the wall protect you? Or are they craftier than that?

You feel them right under your feet. They have burrowed below the wall, escaping it’s grasp. Suddenly, the chandeliers settle. The dust made restless settles again as your heart slows. The rumbling is gone. You know, however, that this isn’t over. Listen quietly. You know, you know they are here somewhere. What’s that you hear? Crashing waves? Laughter? You are thrown to the ground by a nameless force. It is they, the shattering centipedes. They have found thee.

You are yanked into light. You are elsewhere! Yanked from one place to another. No signs of the place prior. The room is blank and large.

Nothing but a single nightstand, which upon sits several spinning and cracking eggs, is present. The yolk sizzles upon the surface and tickles your nose, mind, and gasping belly. Your umbrella is missing but you fail to notice, for you have a body to fill. You float towards the cooking eggs, melting away the shell particles that still float in the hardening, white muck. It smiles at you as you smile at it. All is smiles. Before your fingers begin scooping at this feast, the drawer directly below on this sole nightstand, free of explanation, opens up and out come bruised hands. As they squeeze your shoulders, you are yanked on in. The drawer closes, the sizzle silences, and you are in darkness again.

You hear breathing. You are not alone in this cramped room, forcing you into fetal position. A bright light emerges and when you readjust to this newfound light, you find me with lit light bulbs sticking from each ear.

Good Day. So says I to you. Where might we be? So says you to I. I have built a flying machine. It’s meant for one but it can home two. Above us are blades spinning in unison, keeping us above the crashing waters. So says I to you. What make the blades run? So says you to I. Your mind as you read these words. Let the contradictions begin! I hope you don’t mind some seaweed. So says I to you.

One of the walls begins to give. Cold saltwater begins leaking through the cracks. Starfish start clinging to our feet and shivering ensues.

When the pressure does in the whole box, we swim up desperately, getting tangled in the thick strands of algae. There is a white light glimmering above the surface of the water and through much bubble veiled struggling, we find ourselves inhaling air again. Luckily, we’re just off the shore! I see a town ahead of me. It’s made of ice! So says you to I. We float motionless in the cold, murky waters and gaze at this pathetic spectacle. Sparks fly in the foreground and smoke plumes arise in the background. Yet… yet nothing melts, only freezes further. The mushroom clouds, and there are many, send bursts of snow exploding over the huge, icy skyscrapers as the dogs catcall one another. The sun blows cold air upon this utopia as if to be rid of a fly on his apple pie.

What is this? So says I to you. It appears… it seems as though the ocean is shrinking shallow. So says you to I. That it is. That it is. With our eyes locked on the kingdom, we notice that it grows smaller as well. We can see the pastures and mountains that steam confidently and comfortably far behind it and… ha! We’re at eye-level with the jets. Sunken ships are

revealed as the ocean finally vanishes to nothing but scattered puddles strung about like liquor bottles on riot-drenched streets. Whales flop about every which way. Hey Saren? Do you feel bloated? So says I to you. Yes. If I’m not mistaken, we have absorbed the seven seas. Notice how large we’ve become. So says you to I. That we did. That we did.

We look down on the tiny little kingdoms of ever hardening, squeaking, concentrated ice and tick-tocking lament, and then I notice at the top of my vision that we can see beyond the distant pastures and mountains.

Further to a different time. I see volcanoes erupting, as if from your eyes and mouth, and gushing with vehement conviction down the way. I see collectives of cold, afraid porcupines, unaware that they are invulnerable to the fatal touch of flaming, orange magma. They sit in heaps as the tea is shivered out of the mugs they hold. Suddenly, as abrupt and loud as a smiling gasp, they are all enveloped in this raw, somatic heat. Could it be though?! They are unharmed. Rather, they grow thumbs and stand with sharpened pricks standing astute on their backs.

A person dies every few moments. Sometimes the eyes close and the thud of void sounds in unison. There go somemore. Like neglected fruit we fall and rot. Plummeting plums move with the groove. Death is the deance.

Life as well. Boogey friend. Cha! Cha! Cha! Florida has many dancers. They all fart and loathe that. She loathes you.

Sand is in the socks. The shoes shiny. Holy cow! There was never any cause for alarm. Chill the fuck out. The water. It cools. The pools solidify, as do the ducks.

Everlasting bliss is the middle of all things. Just once would she and he and it like a Lilith miracle. They’ve had them! They really did! They had their miracles come to them in spades! Happy endings passed out to all humanity!

Yes! Yes! The coming dawn! There was never such a thing greater than these sillouhettes. Bring a coat when you leave the car. The trail leads into the highest, dampest clouds! The thunder! The thunder sounds the song of dawn! Here it comes! The stars and the moon foretold it’s coming with motherly nurture. Lord! Oh accident! Oh the dawn and it’s twilight growing brighter and brighter! Like the first lick of candy in ethereal malfunction.

Broken with sparks like grandiose firework extravaganza!

Cayucos!

The geysers are the colors of rainbows! The trees turn inside out and the shadowy insects crystalize and become magnificent sentient gems that accessorize the coming skies! The ocean blue again! As if the whole shebang is under the sea! No waves above, the waters hold still for the sailers tonight, fishing for a kill, catching a few friends. A few foes. The dawn! The dawn! The coming dawn!

Big Sur! The bushes grow taffy and blossom with cotton candy. The grass liquefies and the whole world swims around in the mess. Distilling the water!

The natural springs! Take a sip! The little worms inside you rejoice! Renewal

comes with the dawn! You bask in your atrophy! You conquer through surrender! What is there to fight when the dawn is coming?

Unconditional love. Unconditional love for all sentient beings.

Meditating upside down and backwards with shirt tucked in wrong and choler all funny. Out of body experiences and heartbreak in the search for coitus.

The dusk sends down rain made of staircases. Flights of stairs knocking down the embassy’s. But here comes the dawn and there was said to be birds in the juniper bushes. Bliss limbo rot. Hopscotch with infinity. The fever of a thousand foal vomits from you in a cleansing upheaval. The love fills the air.

The sweat of sex behind closed doors, sometimes you’re on the lit side.

Sometimes you quietly sigh with another in the dark. The door see not. Safe and sound to be agitated or exhilarated. Step right up and roll the die.

Broken men with broken gestures. Holding rats who squeak in worry.

The dawn is coming! The dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn the dawn is coming!

They travel beyond request. They hike upon the dynamite that shall explode their clock.

Serenaded by the sound of seals. Such vigor. Songs upon a plank of algae soaked wood. Everything was submarine. That green sheen. The birds fly whilst splashing. The giant rock in the sea, such a dense stone, yet somehow monolithic.

The dwelling of human thought. The jealousy. The ferocious longing, the paranoia. We share this with such versatile meat. The jaguars lose themselves sin lust. Just as you shine shoulders and fop over crotches, the felines stare and convulse with original sin. We are part of this savage kingdom. This palace of coitus spans past the cities and into the swamps, the grottos, the treetops. Emotion is not exclusive. The bugs don’t want to be squished just as you don’t. We are no more important than they.

Monterey!

The smithereens hid under the pier like the swan song of a firework smash. The stoner shizos and their decadent apparel smile. Chapped lips peal. The strenuous pull of cheer shines blood through the veil of dirt. Stuck in the funnels of wave sounds you know the one. Birds tend to fly about around these lays of the land. The acres that drift moist and funky from the solid. One of glass. Your eye. The world. In groups they fly. Swooping and rippling to these funnels in question. The beach. The sounds are sublime.

Azure! Oh! Families here and there. The guffaw from these genetic cesspools brought to you by slam-dunk headquarters, emerge as sonic explosions with Shostakovich precision. Music is everywhere. The tenderness in everyone’s heart filled the air with tremendous gravity. Thick like sky blue gelatin as still as a stillborn eye. A doll eye. One of glass.

Laugh and sing and smother the sand wolf face with seaweed sand.

The fractalized infant waves create dense brown gunk psychedelia upon reflective sheen mud. Castles of sand erode into smooth shit.

There were but aren’t any longer two bereved souls. Their intuition took a bottle of the real glass and hit hard over the skull of their oneness.

Their love. Split by the transience of shooting stars, one had a mission. The other had her straight flush thrown into dust devil. Split again. Like an atom.

The mushroom cloud of desperate caws spewing forth. One heard wind of a special business. Malpractice if there was ever malpractice. Symbols between the lines were hissed. The Tibeten Book Of The Deads. Liberation through hearing was whisperered into his ear. They, the letters, stray shrewdly above the lethe brook, not the damsel name but the babbling kind.

Glug glub glub. We hover over the void, we lurk beneath it. It pushes your cheeks together. No more toothpick samples from the oral cavity. We, the nerve fuckers, are given the seldom opportunity to see this first hand. Eye witness testimony from soothsaying lollygaggers and pimps on broadway.

The lamas and limbo sniffers declare we may let go of life for one jiffy given the event of going achool. The prime minister of the congo guano throne calls it sneezing. One of these lost souls. The one with his cards in hand, dealing kings and breaking hands in games of Egyptian Ratsnaps and Spoons. He has a destination on the tattered map. To achieve the perfect sneeze. The conquistadors went bonkers on this pursuit. The lost oul says he can do it. I don’t doubt the man. Funn, the perfect sneeze. Be it a simple exclamation of “Phantasmagoric”.

The gnarly spearmint zone of essence cannot be denied. To take the jiffy and send the vibration eternal. To live and tell the tale. The flashbulbs will greet you among the nameless crowds of humble soldiery. Doingv the wave and biting off their undergarment at the sight of his grandiose Tibet metamorphosis. They watch. They drool. What show as it he would give.

Why, he’s synchronize swim in the lethe stream, the void fluid, with his chakras, his fellow sentient lifeforms from one astral bunker or another. All shall be music. What tool will the soul. Let’s call him Stamati, shall he reap.

Nothing more than remote control. Who positions itself as modulator of the knobs. None other than the tessellations on high. Not that which naked eye gape towards. Nay. That which beach goggles unfurl like agle wingspan. We will have plenty of time for orion’s belt later. The spectacles reveal reptiles and their corresponding amygdalas on the way up the trail.

She, the other half of the great bar mitzvah of sensual monogamy, let’s call her Spawfoe, was a half baked chronic kleptomaniac of tumultuous uprising. One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go. What remains is oblivion. She would always say that in her sleep. She advocated the counting of sheep. But her counting held tight to nothing. A simple, rhythmic ascent up the nemero line. She also drank cyanide and would make love to crustaceons. That is a tale for a raunchier time.

Jackrabbits frolic too whilst all of this unvield. Spawfoe… what is this that unfurls?

The ocean vanishes and a hundred trillion organisms plummet laughing wielding accordians! Celebration among the decline! Refinement!

Lord!

River snapping oligarchy maple horse haw fever trickle hound go foundling in the patch of marco polo Beirut scatological flouresence in bushfly Sagitarius. Santiago. Evergreen stupor. Indian Karmikle.

Aquatic Gemini. Hold tight to the light. Spare me your island.

Wilderness in ladybugs. Coitus. Coitus won’t you swallow fleas. Birds, bees, cigarette flees. Hide your bees please.

Flamboyant. Sitting with the trees. Saboteur showdown. Arthritis earlobe. Spectors, so silver. Questioning the glow. Frogs fly in mirrors.

Answering the glow. Stagnant, stampeding. Turkmenisten! Silent bilingual.

Amphibious retort. Homeless bread and butter. Sphincter euro shards.

Alabama purple. Oh, the pleasant vibes. I am dead. Scorn maples.

Guatalahara. Conquistador musings! Ha ha ha ha ha! Tradmark Scandanavia!

Circles spread in mania. Lizards take sips of the moon. Pissing twilight.

Belching you. Then the morning came. Then the morning came. Then the morning came. Then The day. Then the evening. Then the night. Hoot hoot.

Hoot hoot. Hoot hoot. Sings the owl. Blue lotus sprouts. Elixers shout. Cigars pee yew. Survival. Survival. How are you? Survival. Carnival. Carnivals.

Spectacle. Spectacles. Oh me, oh my. What is the time? The time is now, so be a clown.

She stayed home while Stamati danced deep into the steaming, molten jungle. Soon he will find the proper elixir. Soon a synapse will explode eureka. It is inevitable to him. What one wants is always given. It’s because we’re sinners. The blasphemous bathe in communal baths of omnipotent source. Always more goods coming from the woodwork. The assembly line knuckles and scars never rust. The fingers of young wayward bedwetters never got caught in the spinning vehement gears and turbines.

History is a huffing rag.

And then I was blown into smithereens, the likes of which, no dreamcatcher has ever masticated. You followed shortly thereafter. Teeth of hemp twine. Peacock feathers. The birds, now naked as thanksgiving cock, shiver in their land plucked of wings. I am hidden among these quivering souls and if you keep a shrewd watch, you’ll see the moon gleaming like the morning glaze upon my scalp. Hot springs all around in this desolate acre.

The steam has a life of its own if time grants it a watchful babysitter with a frolicking imaginations. Visions of cobras and sewing machines in the mystic vapors like Icarus and the balloons of your quick-witted youth, the gas ascends towards the flaming ball of the sky. The rays are steady mirages wielding lyres and hashem. Explore, explore, the emporiums galore, you slime speckled trouth, with deep seeded doubt! I shout! Huraunges, withing, the fangs. Not using my teeth to chatter, or articulate, but within the plaguqe rooted profoundly within the chomper marrow. Masticate. Masticate. Pro create. Fornicate. End. End. End. End. End. End. End. There was the limping day. That one stung my skull. Splintered still with the trauma katana. Read on and you’ll catch a wiff of the sting. Dirty hands active and ferocious. Venis show through the flesh, such strain with a soft rash of red, so molten. They become one with the dough, upon the che’f

table. The green lightbulb suspended in air. The incandescence magnetically pull the shadows from their hiding place. That gap between the realn and the shadow expands like a cum swallowing mouth. I drop the glasses in the space in between and with a white tooth chrome, the earth shook and the space vanished. Thinnest DNA. Visioned blured. Stampeding forward. The blurs hugging. They love nothing. In the land of samsara. I wait for you. A hungry ghost whose intent was ferocious as amplified hummingbird buzz. Throw it away and be in darkness. Regret.

In the silent place, where the crickets have no love, only heartbeats that ricochet off of inanimate walls. Prisons for insects in the great dark.

Fragmented and separated are the cages. Thousands of miles apart. The airports do not groan. The cemeteries do not shiver. There is no sound in the silent place. This all lies against non-reflective black terrain. Ahead of coffin veiled eyes, there is no sun to glister their black pupils, so dusty. Against this world, of worlds not yet illumined, Villas of eventuality float without existence like mercurial cylinders with the void heavens inside.

Without much ado, the soil rich horizon is bathed in particle light and time. The coffins pop as bubbles pop and the rays find the black pupils. The darkness glows with light. Different shades of shadow in the black dot, shrinking against the bitter light like linguistic aperture. The sunlight massages your ears with the sounds of the crickets seen ahead, liberated and sounding their love fiddles. These ears and pupils are separated in the space time continuum. their merging process begins. Spilling from all sides of this sun-soaked pupil are deserts and dunes. So concentrated is their shade of orange, like the sands of venus and more potent still. Glowing with orange, yet restrained and cool in temperature. A color most cosmic and illusive in mother nature.

Water is born for the very first time. The deserts flood all around with deep aquamarine water. Glowing thick with murky flawless green, like the surface of Uranus and more potent still. Very cool in temperature, freezing, shivery, smoldering. Sizzle spice zest pow. Ghostly is it's aura. Now, the desert is but a sandy beach. The waves of this aqua ripple subtly and with a little pep from my imagination. Deeper do the waters of this ghostly sea of beautiful bliss go. Darker does it's shade appear from up on high, where the sun floats watching and exploding in place. Darker and deeper goes the water until the pitch black is thick and absolute. This is where the bottom feeders feed. The magnificent, magnificent bottom feeders. Slimy and aroused by shadow. They peak their eyes from behind moldy rocks of black and smile with teeth most jagged. The beauty is unreal.

Exploding from this darkness in all directions pointing away from your shrunken pupil is a sky made of milk. Glistening, glossy, spanning light-years and light-years across, the shine and gleam and divine sheen absolutely thrilling. This milk of sky enshrouds a sphere of matter and in it sits trails of deep red smoke from the tear duct tavern door. Like lightening strikes of blood! Other clouds of red, so faint and slight, here and there occasionally.

Otherwise, polished is this sky of milk. All nested in delicate flesh. Cliffs of pink that end in lashes, like brown flames stationary in moving time. Blinks every now and again. Through the flesh that surrounds, which glitters so with galaxies of stars and blushing, the ears and eyes are merged.

The temple expands to beautiful peacock landscape, soft with eroding goose-bump flesh, bright under the sun. Mountains of crystals and diamonds with clouds of all colors obscure the land like fog, so dreamlike and melting with rainbows. all of this and divinity, yet the sun is locked on the limbo eyes.

There are unseen sights. A soul speaks through the invisible, resonating shivers spewing from these spheres of vision. A history. A voice that wishes to flow as liquid saying "I have seen agony. I have seen ecstasy. I have seen, and I have this to share. This is all I can ever hope to give away, so I shall give away it all forever, because I can. I have felt the cold. I work to befriend the cold. Others cannot help to shrivel under the frost's mantle of strength. I hereby sacrifice my warmth. Amen" At the sight of this, the sun, the anonymous star in the macrocosm of countless, envisions something. The pupil appears as a volcano protruding from the ghostly sea. It floats with constant restless motion in the very middle of the venus beach. It erupts with a beam of heavenly light. Straight ahead it fires. I, the star, am exploded.

Oh, murderous banker! Licking the blood off his cheeks and moaning at the moon on his special little cliff. Waves crash on the orange crab rocks far below, so very far below. All of his life’s electricity had bolt from his fingernails, shining across the sea, reflected in your polished, smiling eyeballs while you stand on the shore. You fall to the floor like a piano onto the sand. Sparks the size of stars spring forth from your giggling, and then the tide rolls in and you drift away. Canoes full of spinning tops and music boxes are seen off in the distance. Flying fish jump above you, making lively, blurry ceilings in your sight. The stars wink and gossip above you as shooting stars destroy Manhattan.

Then, birdcages grow from seaweed and you are yanked into the black, ever so wet darkness. Milky bubbles housing flute-playing pet-rocks are seen glowing in the darkness. The starfish spin in frenzy all around you.

Your lungs, they begin filling with saltwater and with the snap of oblivion’s finger, your ears turn into robins and sail away. The mothers and the children wave goodbye at the dock, hoping their robins would return home alive and victorious. They then look up and find themselves deafened by the roaring tigers in the flaming helicopters overhead and they kill over. They now leave this story forever and ever.

You are saved from drowning in the abyss by many broncobusters. They sweat toothbrushes but… today is cold! They dry you off, give you an apartment on the asteroid belt, and give you polished shells for company. You look out the window and see me fending off gargantuan crickets in outer space. You consider it, and with the silence of an eye, you spin galaxies in the sitting room as new minds cartwheel on in. I crash

through the window, straight into a picture hung upon your melting wall. How is it that the colors of this photographic world sharpen my teeth and twist off my nose? My eyes turn pink and frolic through the junkyard. Then I step out of the frame again with a new hair due.

The robins never came home, and the few who did had no houses to go to. You can still hear the cries today, in the foreboding wind in their once prosperous city of ruin. No flash photography please.

Your galaxies spin too fast and they dissolve into lollipops.

Grasshoppers decapitate one another outside somewhere out there, but where might be the savants here in the asteroid belt? The man under your couch cushion plays checkers with the plague. He is losing. This, along with other annoyances, begin giving you second thoughts about this apartment.

Back on earth, the bus doesn’t want to know your name. All it wants is your life and it’s filling up on gas right this moment! Listen for a jiffy or two. Do you hear it practicing its vehement shouts beyond the black mountains?

Perhaps you should have stayed on the asteroid belt?

The women and children, despite having said to be dead and removed from this story forever and ever, are seen galloping on ostriches further than sight could see. They throw their spoons into the air and shoot at their kites. Why? They are drowning their sorrows in euphoria. The bus, hearing about this, learns to love you. fall. I fly. All within the electric line. Between houses. Here and there.

Pipes, chimes, electric chimes. Frankly, there was nothing. There is nothing.

Emptiness, without you. The bone men play the bone horns. They sound death. Death, falling off the ledge of grass. Cheering among the grass.

Cheering among the grass. The grass which hides the bugs. In the heart of these bugs is a vile. Within it burns an ember of maroon. Maroon like your fingernails bathed in the blood cascades. Beautiful maroon. Glistens like marvelous design. Design upon bittersweet lips in the ecstatic room. This ecstatic room, looming above the electric line. Electricity that buzzes.

There are no moons. They fade to nothing. you are not real. you fade to nothing. Descend. Decline. Decay. Leave behind. No more suns over the green pastures. No more. The fingers can no longer type. The nothingness creeps over me like a wounded animal creeps over the earth, their victim.

Their blood leaking behind them vomit the babies you wished you had to hold and cradle. They have the eyes of lizards. The feathers of dead escapades lost in treasure maps.

I shine like divine and sip tea with the line. The line that ebbs into the deep blue deep. It blinks with eyes of illusive melancholy. The crevasse cries for you. The crevasse sings a song in homage to you. The song sends tears down I. The bile melts within me and toes fall out of proportion. Seeking love and purchasing razor thin vegetables at the astral shopping center. No more descending.

The bone men sound their bone horns. You don't hear a thing. You are their marrow. Then, in hell. The heavens empty their pockets and find the doves. You! You've been looking for them! You melt in joy.

Emerging from the front door, I fall into a sighing mouth. Maybe the spiders waiting in the depths below will leave my body and only suckle upon my bleeding hands & love hiding behind the transparent door. The shouting curtains blow and ripple in the air, but the stage they veil remains vacant. My descent captures the eye of the audience, as I land hard in the orchestra.

Looking at you, your eyes speak of their sockets, the sockets hiding from me the brain that finds me among the stars and laughs with sparks and mallards. Tomatoes are thrown from they anticipating the show. You say to me, with the wink of an eye, that the shadows must consume you again. The wings of this magnificent theater suck you in and set you down among the dusty furniture ripped with springs growing like mushrooms from the yellow foam.

Willows wait in silent corridors, breast feeding the solid air as it were a stinky little pageant of hodge podge little doggies. The flamboyance!

The Renegade! There is no hockey team to stout to withstand the impenetrable force of Stud Stod thank you mod. Waiting for the worms to arrive and seeking out the treasures of forgetting. Forgetting wasteful fucking jerk-off homo sapien peon of glacier friday. Glacier sunday. Follicle empowerment is my profession when I feel like spinning my lamp this way and the other way all all ways in between the infinite space of infinity. Infinity is all of the ducks in all of the bathtubs of all of the mangoes of all of the PAIN. A quiet room of pink and rust hangs and shivers over a deep darkness by a hook. There are those who sit in this room, who hide under one another, who steal, hide, and eat one another in the corners. Soon they’ll be snapped up and swallowed by a murky fish hiding in the deep, deep darkness.

Tentacles are what arrive, however. They envelop the room and break it wide open. What is this? No people? Only golden stars and seahorses emerge.

Look at them shine! The darkness of the abyss glows a lambent, kingly light.

The sunken ships return again and dance together in the glow, the glow that man shall never see.

A single canoe floats above on the surface of the sea. The water is black around the little boats and the stars are out on holiday. What are we to do? So says one to another. Where are we to travel? So says one to another.

Should we sink ourselves? So says one to another. One fires a flare high up into the air and it shines with a blinding light. As it descends to the earth, it reveals the sneaking serpents tail poking with might through the ocean waters. As its head begins to emerge with it’s tongue licking his lips, the light goes dark again. Creep. Creep. Creep. Creep. I… I think the sea is awake. I think the sea is hungry. So says one to another. A smell of gutted fish lingers all around them as hot breaths dampen their hair. They see nothing. We see nothing! So says one to another. They row, row, rowed their boat, silently to oblivion. Merrily… merrily… merrily… merrily, life is but a dream.

I recall a fish, a fish. I read of him in the stars, the stars. He galloped on rhino legs, rhino legs. It ran among the rims of erupting volcanoes, volcanoes. This happens on the shore, the shore of this fictional sea. A sun

emerges… no make that two suns emerging. They are young, white, and full of heat, but the atmosphere sucks it freezing and despondent snow falls on the dock, the empty dock off the shore of this fictional sea. I read of these suns in my nightmares. Oh how I missed the moon hanging above my sleeping head. I wish to grab it. I, the hermit crab, wished to grab it. Alas though, the tide rolled in, the tide of this fictional sea. I drift away at my peril!

The suns hide away and the ocean is black again. Fireworks and drumming explode in the night, but spots to we on the Oakmont Ship at sea.

We see the final, dim flare of the forgotten canoe. We see the cars and the homes floating in the cold waters.

You walk into a brand new room. One made of distorted memories dancing transparently yet opaque before your science-prone eyes. Ahead of you, on the wall distorted and made primordial by your mind, there hangs a portrait of a despondent sorcerer. What story do his eyes tell? Stop reading for a moment and decipher the code of his woeful stare. What experiences does his lamenting brain fold like origami? Whose gentle hand shaded his cheeks and dotted the eyes? Answer that to yourself.

His lower jaw descends and caresses the floor of this room and ladybugs spew forth from the moist cavern of his mouth, as it were the insults of a man to his dog. These ladybugs, as real as the sensations in your neck, begin orbiting your observing self. You begin to illuminate like the sun and the ladybugs gaze in dormant awe! This euphoria, this incandescence greater than thought can fathom, evaporates the walls and reveals a massive forest. The forest never ends. The forest never ends. So much sound emerging from the trees. So much suffering and laughing. So many creatures warming themselves euphorically in bundles and hunting for survival as the mud drowns them. The forest, the forest that never ends, can be found on the speck of dust settled on the dead Moth's eye, as it sits lifelessly and contorted under a mattress in a haunted storage facility somewhere in Delaware.

Walking through the forest, you come across a man crowned with thorns trying to gnaw open a can of tuna. With much effort, he lifts his malnourished neck and gazes into your eyes. "Can you spare some change, little lady?". this is what he says. This is what he says to you. Your arm, the arm of the friend to the friendless, plucks the sun from the sky as it were a berry from a vine and you hold it tight in your grasp. Opening your fist, the sun is revealed to be a gold coin. On this coin is encrusted a lavish jet, a smiling jet, the only jet. You hand it to this man and he gives a huge smile, revealing the worms tangling together in the gaps of his black teeth.

Many years later, the man lay dead in the dirt in this forest of all things. Around him are a few frogs who, overtime, became quite acquainted with this fellow. Their smiles are huge!!!! The dead man's smile is infectious, as his lifeless hand still grasps this coin, this coin with the lavish jet... the smiling jet... the only jet... the sun... you....

Hiding under guarded silk, moist as a hephalump under the horizon, was a puddering, powder sea salt shaker. Shivering with a million splendors under the Viennese moon of Hawlslamity, he spoke of kings, queens, and washing machines. Stolen towers ate no flowers of a bedridden spout.

Movement in the cataclysm will sure to grow your snout! Here here! Said he, in C. Bashful hound hounds and their breakable industries of parking lot meters! Why have thee deceived me, the austere, conspirator mouse?

The evil gladly share their spines.

They scratch themselves with porcupines!

The turquoise grub, his hat, his shovel The mangy sprites! On The double!

Wholesome activity in the malignant mollusk milieu. chatter and flattery. Matter and hattery. Murder and battery! All and more growing from your navel.

Snip snap go their claws.

This and that clack their jaws.

Who is to say and who is to blame? A monger of steam on the corner down the way, pushing his place of business with his might and more towards my angler fish home. A badger and his clergyman are in cahoots in the sporadic mystery tame game. Feathers and quills. Memory gils.

Mahogany brave! Mahogany brave! Concave mosquitos, concave mosquitoes, a manic coffin full of rain.

How strong, how weak, how many? Even if the days are old, that doesn’t rule out infancy in their realm. Quite the contrary! Days… falling like waterfalls eroding the nearby, mossy stones that mother goose herself couldn’t stand to listen to. Yes, mother goose. Nothing but stories of blowing mist and tropical bird shit falling from the skies wiggled into her cochlea, making it shrivel and recite the poetry of somatic oblivion. This oblivion was the ether from which we emerged and as the strawberries come to full blossom underneath the flaming floorboards of your most repressed evenings, we massage and lick the mud-bathing lizards hiding in the moonlit, climaxing woods inhabiting your small intestine. As the shit flows, the colorful and idiomatic party that was this friendliness gets, if you don’t mind my saying so, quite pooped. HA! There is a huge flash of light and as your eyes adjust, you find that you are elsewhere. No more lizard licking for you! Oh, how dull. It is that one backyard you remember from your distant childhood. You only saw it once or twice in your twilight days, when your teeth chattered, gossiped, and gambled profusely. There is a tree giving forth berries and leaves exploding with colors never before seen. How fast it grows! A toy train speeds all around the branches and all seems lovely, but that tree wasn’t there when you first saw this yard. Has it been that long? Tick tock goes the clock.

One… two… three… four. Who might that be? Whose voice was that?

You’re the one who heard it so don’t ask me. You felt it bounce and breath in your polished and grinning skull. Look out! Pumpkins circle you with forks and knives in hand. They sing like kings of a gold encrusted swamp and the

flames behind their carved faces grow faces of their own. They snicker and shout like a teakettle spout! Snickering, snockering, snuckering, Hey! When do the jelly’s start stinging their pray. Five… six… seven…

The sun of another living world above you, the moons of mars inside you, all was well. The paint tasted wonderful too. In the Cineplex, the sticky fingered praying mantises convened, vaporized, and blood let with the rowdiness of a bubble filled bathtub flying down the white rapids within moose veins. The vaudeville themed harpsichord in the corner is jammed by dead, dusty possums and the film was out of focus. A claw emerges. A claw emerges from the dark corners of this dusty, flickering theater. It has come to choose, by flip of shiny dime, who to take to the bowling alley of the restless chicken’s second favorite nightmare. All flee for the exits, but one remains. The quiet one, the sneaky one. The claws dig in! Out comes her beating heart. She dies holding her favorite rabbit. Sniff sniff sniff sniff. The gods gaze in awe! Sweet Jesus! So says one of the Gods.

There shant, by prophecy foreseen in the cobwebs of green lightening above thee, be a heart like this ever again. Her death was not in vain!

Seahorses melt into a vast, primordial form within it’s beating core. Too euphoric to remain a solid I suppose! They float about, all becoming one in a bubbling ooze of smiles and spectral spirals. In your birthday suit and your bouquet of snake mouthed gardenias in grasp, you spin down these spirals.

Where now? Far below you, you’re in freefall by the way, is a town. It’s too stuck on the earthquake ridden surface of earth to get much done. When you reach this town, they won’t be able to scrape you off of the sidewalk. What to do??

8… 9… 10!

There’s that voice again! A trillion winged maggots arise from beyond the horizon. They smelled the melting, fungal cheese burning infinitely many holes in your amphibious pockets and they fell in love! That cheese is yours!

The town below you crumples, as if it were a doodle on scrap paper. The abstract, sharp cornered ball floating in the void of nothingness folds into origami. It looks kind of like you! Dolphins dressed up as witches start flying out of your ears and every pore of your being explodes with yellow seaweed as you fall towards your opening mouth of paper and ink. You gobble yourself up!! Damn, you were the best thing you ever tasted! Next to hockey…

You are not of this universe. There is nothing in the cradle but more cradles. Rockabye baby… What? Really? No! You look under this universe and all like it to prove these words wrong. Luckily, they’re neatly stacked one above the other like pages of the novels nailed shut as they spin around the twisters of peaceful blood. Below this stack you find a lavishly dressed ostrich sleeping upon a hammock made of harmonious honey. He floats around in a huge, bioluminescent abyss, surrounded by slowly melting ice sculptures of grand kings grasping their feces, holding it high and mighty so the heavens might see. The ostrich, he snores like the pack-leading bison in the dry tundra, he does! Orange mucus bubbles come flying fervently from your nose. Where do they go? They play it by ear. After some exploration of

this sleeping, flightless bird of high ornamentation, they choose to set up camp under its toenails. Coffins filled with tear-ridden telescopes and lovemaking scorpions orbit their campsite furiously! FURIOUSLY I SAY! Snowmen grow spontaneously from the gopher holes around their white-hot campfire, laughing maniacally as they ripple like the acorn trees in the duck pond behind the copious heat waves. Shit! The mucus bubbles, in their beautifully intimate, womb-like tent, they smother one another with piss soaked rags stolen from Santa’s throat and stir up quite a ruckus. You feel your skin and are overcome by blissful Goosebumps.

Another flash of light overcomes you! You’re home! The sunroof opens and you find that above you there stands a glacier the size of Pluto, melting quickly into your living quarters as seventeen drunk Latvians explore it’s icy surface in the nude. The nude I say! The stinky, rainbow colored earthworms who happily crawl in spirals on the springs in your mattress predicted this whole fiasco once. Sometimes they whispered it to you while you slept, changing the course of your dreams. Meanwhile, the feathers magnetically pressed against your sleeping, blanketed thighs slowly took flight and with their gentle tickle, turned the sea mines of the astral plane above you into loving canine eyes and vials of glowing dragon ejaculate.

The large bumblebees dressed as policemen come bursting out of your delirious belly and tickle your nose threateningly with their polished stingers.

How rude of them to be meddling about while you drift in slumber! To hide yourself from the strong arm of the law, you hop with haste into the clitoris of the nearest frolicking cocoon. What do you find? Darkness! Eleven…

Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen… Fifteen… Again you hear that voice! Who might that be?! So says you to the quiet, breathing black. Where could you possibly be? How can you possibly see? You vomit blindingly bright fireflies, so as to light your new world. Their light does away with the deceitful darkness. Would you like to know what they have revealed? Look up.

Alleyways are seen in the rippling, mossy waters and distant cannonfire can be heard. Whispers. Whispers. Whispers. What are you to do? I suggest you jump on in. exploring the murky swamp water with your stolen paintings burning trillions of holes in your many pockets. That sounds like the right thing to do, right? Suddenly, there is a violent plume all around you and everything goes dark.

People jump out of the shadowy womb of the elevator, naked and prepared with their light bulbs, to bring colors back into your darkness. They screw them in and the cannon-fire turns to sounds of happily melting fellows.

The light is gorgeous! The murky swamp is for the dogs! You have the furnace, covered in grafitti. It swallows up the children of another time. What was behind the darkness was a machine, excited to warm your fingers and toes.

Basking in the heat, you forget the ticking of the clocks. You forget the hissing snakes and the dancing gargoyles. Venomous, pink spiders from Koni Island make their way to you and nibble on your peaceful throat. The furnace breaks and you pluck at the strings in your secret cabinet. You turn blue and

your lips blow up into pink balloons and pop. Your eyes evaporate and knives keep flying from your chest. Their poison takes its toll.

With your newly acquired kangaroo legs, you sprint up the snowy mountains and throw firecrackers down on the unsuspecting, dying town below. The drunk spiders on your shoulders, now fresh out of venom, try their best to learn the mambo. To your excitement, they master it and leave you be. World leaders hang dead and bloody on the evergreens of the streets. They wiggle, swing, and shriek like monkeys in heaven to the sounds of your exploding teeth, now at peace with having eaten your only furnace.

Soon, you notice me quacking at dead ducks. Your exploded teeth burn me and I turn to orange ash. I fly out the window and envelop a catholic church. Now you see it, now you don’t. Lava erupts from the top of your head and makes hieroglyphics on the ceiling. What is this, a tap on your shoulder?

Here I am again. Now what should we look at?

After much consideration, we stare at the alleyways reflected in the rippling, mossy waters. We jump on in. No alleyways, just a quickly shrinking room! Our pockets are empty and mice await to make bags shiver.

Wouldn’t you know it! I brought my furnace along. That is what we are to hop into. Within it, the Gods wait in the smoldering ember. They hiss.

They hiss. They hiss like Martian centipedes. I know, it is quite hot in here.

Your bloody handprints on the walls smile at me as my eyeballs melt in the immense heat. I regret to announce however, we are now reduced to a boiling, bubbling broth. We are now stains and nothing more. Houses of snow form around what’s left of us and we take on the appearance of snowmen, jolly snowmen. It is not remembered what occurred next. All that is known is that we made headlines.

Hide, no more. There is a tide. A tide. Hide me. There is nothing within the horse's head. Yellow is the morning. The fingernails lick the evening. My nostrils surrender. The hands of weary ones are not weary. the umbrella that flies away, is not astray. The man who holds nothing yet carries everything is the window to the intravenous meddling of horoscopic leaves. Horoscopic leaves and winter so evil. So vile and so malignant. Holding me in the pain of knowing, knowing that the buses roar for my throat. My throat, yes my throat, Mr. Hickery Dickery Talk to me, walk with me. Hold me. Squeeze me.

Kiss me. Digest me.

Ice cubes of magnificent design are so persistent, so malign. However many moreover makeup makeshift mavericks there might be floating in the holstering oyster bays, I await your reply. You have to pay close attention to the sheep. You have to observe astutely the hogs. The hogs with bones crackling in my shoulders. My shoulders ache at the thought of you. She, with her toes, explodes into foes. A biscuit, a stare most afraid, the possibility that the snow-globe bearing you shall shatter under the hammer. Mostly though, what remains is the inevitability. the inevitability of the dissolving slug slime.

Shimmy, but don't lock me in. The cell is too topic and enveloped in tropic frog licks. I am me but in the land of you I am you, smiling and saying "I'm worse than you. I need your help. Oh, help me! Save me, sire!".

There once was a man. He died. Never had he seen an airplane. They were far after his time. His clock hangs itself in the broom closet of the antique shop. Then, the rainbows shatter through every last window all was well.

Like the vibrations coming in contact with the cochlea hairs and turning to electricity, the wind blew the tall, brown grass ever so gently before your closed eyes. In this dark cellar the air is stale and the rot gasps for water. You tend to the rat bites reddening your malformed feet with eyes still closed, as if to avoid the blinding light of heaven. Skin-and-bone cows grow plump in your hazy, black gaze, and smile with eyes agape and enveloped in wet.

They frolic, as if never even touching the ground, as they make operatic crescendos with their mooing. This song and it's amplitude overwhelms your whole body with ticklish euphoria, but your dusty cochlea in your dark cellar remains hardly touched. All but the sounds of still wind, creaking wood, the witch laughing from afar, the dying coughs of the city tramp, and the lightening crackling exists in a realm pushed behind the walls of damp stone.

You crawl and collect nothingness under your small, wooden bed, letting time blow out the candles, with eyes still closed and the cows growing hungry. The wind calms and the tall, brown grass stays still. A bowl of bread, broth, and rice is pushed through the doggy door, as is a glass of parasitic, fuzzy water.

Your nose is clogged with vomit and the cows begin dropping. The cellar and it's aura rips your eyes open, and you see ahead of you more stone, ever thickening stone. Now you jump into the wall and find yourself at the base of a grand waterfall, smashing upon you with fierce conviction. You flop your way over to a nearby mossy stone, decorated in bird shit. You see a mud puddle full of crocodiles straight ahead, their eyes are roses and their teeth are filtered by corks. They lazily sigh, and hide behind the fireflies. The monkeys hop about on the branches, as if scared away by some creature lurking in the bushes. You find a human skull among the riverbed pebbles, as polished as the mirrors of the royal houses. Now claws rip the blood from your flesh and send a concentrated cloud of red down the sandy, transparent, tranquil stream, pushing through the small pebbles like a grand, red, volcanic plume of smoke consuming the himalayas. The hairs of the cochlea shrivel and implode under the incessant roar of the beast, the bringer of your demise, yet your dusty cochlea in the dark cellar remains hardly touched.

The soldiers march on in the pastures of gossiping poppies towards the city made of jello. The gigantic hawks above eclipse the light of the afternoon and in these shadows, the soldiers’ rifles see an opportunity! With all of their strength, they metamorphose into dung beetles and burrow into the thick, creamy mud below the vehement, patriotic steps. They burrow deep. They burrow deep. They burrow deep. With each foot descending comes a greater darkness manifesting. This darkness is far too potent, far

too absolute. You squint at this black thickness appearing on your lambent, crystal stone. You can no longer see as dung beetle see! The stone melts and elephant trunks emerge from your scalp. Sniff… sniff… sniff.. Eureka! What shall I call what I have found? How about… a ceiling!? So says one of these trunks.

Sitting at the table in your palace made of jello, you gaze at the puddle that was once your stone. The soldiers are silent. Have they stopped approaching? I suppose they couldn’t have done much to us without their rifles. You turn your neck and gaze at yourself in the wiggling, jiggling, red reflection on the wall. You notice something. Your hand has detached and is scuttling out the door. With haste you send your chair flying as you speedily crab-walk your way over, which proved hard with the one hand and all. Shit!

It has grown wings and is flying off. With all of it’s being, your hand waves goodbye and blows kisses with it’s lavish robin wings. Say it isn’t so!

The moon is formed around this ancient world of yours in the blink of an eye above you and it’s light calls you to prayer. Stroking your hair with the soles of your feet, you communicate with flawed, malfunctioning paradise as your slumber begins to dampen everything. You are hurled forward, through the wall of your vision. When you fly past what sight may see, you enter the unknown matter of the spheres. Magnifying glasses spinning like galaxies float around in a blank void exploding with all the colors of the spectrum. You grab one, look through it, and see in this expansion of textures a little collective of hunters armed with spears. They approach a wide, deep, red river full of horrified, splashing bison and gaze at their destination laughing at them from the other side. We must cross! So says one of the hunters. With your giant, blinking eyeball filling the sky, they make a bridge in seconds flat! Now we may cross! So says one of the hunters. As they cross, a minuscule little burst of air oozing softly out of your nose shakes the branches off of the surrounding trees and causes the bridge to collapse. They are overcome by the water and are never seen again.

With a blink of an eye, you find yourself locked in a large birdcage hanging off a branch growing out of the world’s stickiest jailhouse. The plague ridden, mud bathed villagers throw scorpion infested tomatoes at you, occasionally missing and sticking to the walls of the adhesive jail, which itself is already covered in hundreds of twitching flies. Suddenly, something utterly impossible begins to occur. A table-saw emerges from the floor and begins moving in a large circle. When this circle is completed, the piece of the birdcage floor falls into the depths. Many soft hands emerge and gently massage your feet. Sedated, the tomatoes smashing on your shoulders and the scorpions digging into your ears turn to slimy worms that shine a beautiful blue light. They envelope you as they grow larger and larger and larger. Soon you are completely enshrouded by these glowing worms!! The hands emerge further out of the hole and calmly drag you in.

Good morning. You have awoken again in your palace of jello. Wait… I did not lay my head here. Wait… Where might my head have gone? Say… Why am I sand? What is happening here? You are now sand! A good

observation I must say! What you failed to notice was… well, now you’re sand in the hourglass on the black widow! You feel your fingers pour down grain by grain at a fantastic speed. Fingers to hands, hands to arms, arms to shoulders, and so forth! Who will come to your aid? This spider has made her little web in the corner of your office of jello, which begins filling rapidly with water. Huzzah! You see a masked man on a canoe extending his hand, which bobs about because of the restless waters below. With confidence, he peels the hourglass right off the bastard’s back and paddles his way to the horizon with you in his pocket. Your world of jello has been sunk!

The lone canoe hopping about on the cold waters in search for the lighthouse is the home of your mind. You slowly redevelop in that soft and serene womb that is the masked man’s pocket. After days and weeks and months have gone by, you emerge crying from the pocket and your sensitive eyes reflect a tiny moon. The night takes you in it’s grasp and molds you, like clay, into the form you take on now, as you read this. The masked man is still. You slowly remove the mask and find behind it a polished mirror. Staring at your crisp reflection, you notice behind you a man being thrown around in the air because he won’t let go of his umbrella in the hurricane winds. Quick!

You paddle over and allow him passage on this canoe. He is me.

He lay there, the king, under the moonlit trees in the forest of his own heaven. The light blanketing the leaves with white existing in a great lambent dark sickened him, for his kingdom is painted in blood and the flags are tattered on their poles. Earth's green and brown veins enshroud the school-houses and maggots parade around in the fermenting gizzards of dead livestock in town-square. The shadows are still and cold and the people are colder still. The vultures circle overhead and the clouds rain only dust.

The dams are leaking and the clocks tick towards the inevitable end. This treacherous tick rings like a thousand cannons firing behind the skull of the once grand king.

It rains in the forest of the king's own heaven. The trees secrete milk that spirals and dances in the bubbling mud and the shrieking insects of the night go and search for their beautiful fluid. Roots encircle and take hold of the king, forcing upon him the embrace of a universe that does not tire or falter.

The elements pain him to the marrow and he dreams of his bed of fine linens and it's feather pillows. A candlelit dinner in his crooked, leaking dining hall was what he screamed for. Nature's mantle of strength descends on he, the king of a grand utopia, for he never did see the beautiful fluid flooding and gushing all around him like magnificent rapids in the river of cacophony. The river of time. The river of space.

When the grand utopia was finally done away with and the vultures dead of starvation, wind came to blow away what was left of the king in the dry desert of his own indifference. The dust of he floating about in the air is now breathed in by the wandering man of the desert. His physical need for an oasis does not mean he in search for one. For the time being, he is allowing pain to be his beautiful fluid, in divine flow in the dryest of dry. The bloody, tender feet soldier on and the sand blowing in his ears make a great

symphony. His dream factory is excited to see what new dystopias he can laugh with. The shrieking insects continue their search, their dreaming, their mission to find the beautiful fluid.

There are mountains and there are seas. Countless flying birds and digging bugs make noise in the nights on this sphere. A million tears and giggles hide in the shadows cast over our part of this planet. Countless worlds in each noisy apartment rotate with the few worlds of this quiet galaxy. The shadows are illuminated by our doings in the night, our probing of the earth’s crust. Oh, and how searches for gold never sleep. We never sleep, we hide, folded under the universe like a blanket, and we search for the gold of another sphere. A world dimly lit behind your closed eyes and slowly breathing mouth. The bed begins to spin. Around, and around, and around you go.

The horsemen gallops in, armed with sharpened, wooden spoons.

Glaring at your bed, he scratches his metal head. Will this be the beginning of something new? This is what he asked himself. The walls open and out come some mouths, dangling at the end of drooping, metal springs. The mouths softly answer. Yes. Yes this will be the beginning of something new.

The bed, spinning faster than bullets fly, gobbles you up. Something new is coming in this exciting, damp dark.

You light a candle and hold it in your grasp. Where can you be? Around you are many abandoned shoes. They seem awful small, and most certainly from another time. A time when townsfolk spun around their horses in smiling orbit. A time when stars were stripes forever. You take a few steps to find anything, anything! In the shadows you find… what could that be? Look deeper, deeper, into the playful darkness, the darkness that dances in the light of your flickering flame. What makes it flicker? Where does the restless air come from? A large raven, dressed as a bride, sniveling sadly into a hanky is discovered in this splotch of black. It turns to you and quickly wipes it’s tears. It takes a shiny coin from it’s pocket. On it is engraved a jet plane, the one from your dreams. Do you take it? You do. It settles at the bottom of your pocket now. The raven smiles and flies out of the nearby window. Ah, a window! Looking through it, you see a faint light over what appears to be the mountainous horizon. Is it the morning sun? It is not. What is it then?

Over the hills, hundreds of happily flaming angels come running towards your darkness. In their hands are Lyres, which they use to sound their war cries. This song overcomes you with orange light, shattering the window, knocking you to the floor and enveloping you with broken, glittering glass. The wooden floor against your back melts and starts to steam, and you find yourself floating in awe with your eyes strictly on the blinding and heavenly fleet advancing towards you. With shoes swimming around you in the water, sailed upon by the dusty spiders once comforting themselves in utter darkness, you await what is to come in this log cabin you’ve found yourself in.

Suddenly, the world splits in two between the angels and you and they fall into open space. You look up and the sun flies across the sky, as does the

moon. The shadows grow impossibly large on your half of the earth as you hurtle towards an opening rip in outer space. This rip, it breathes. This rip, it’s red with blots of white. It is your mouth. Aumgn.

You lick your fingers and walk down the lane, this lane of apartments.

Ahead of you and I, indeed I am there as well, is a waiting car, buzzing and staring at us with red eyes. The car welcomes us with open arms. Once, we embraced these open arms. Here, in this fictional world, You take the coin from your pocket and flick it high into the air, where it sticks and becomes the sun. We descend into the sewers and find ourselves spinning and flying around in the cosmos. Around us are countless stars, and with them are countless worlds illuminated. Let us explode stars with our gaze.

I, the beehive, feel the buzzing and the progress coursing throughout my being. My color stays rich via the rich labor of countless centralized thinkers dying, slaving, and reproducing on their honor. Infinite planets are illuminated by a great, grinding, instinctual fear. A notion that the universe is in constant contact with your bright and silly demise. The jungles are hungry and the towns need rich soil and need it now.

In our labor we perspire mud as gray and brown clouds force upon us acid rain. The valves spin out of control, the sparks fly, and the gasoline begins to leak. Don't light that match now! Gravy pours from the windows of the skyscrapers and hospitals are drowning in mustard. The stop signs grow wings and fly away! Our helicopters take flight and head out to sea. The silver, smooth, flawless corporate structure explodes on its way into the stratosphere and the oceans evaporate, leaving the whales and the cruise liners in free fall to the now shining and gleaming abyss. The trees tear off their branches and the churches dismantle themselves brick by brick. The stars at the war memorials rage war with the tourists and the locusts do away with the golfers. The earth begins spinning towards the sun. The wisemen laughing, the greedy crying, and the children in awe, the end was coming. I, the beehive, fall off my tree and my centralized thinkers all wither and greet their demise.

Emerging from the sands of time like forming dunes are the shoes in search for feet to call their own, and the ferns of all colors emerge from between the laces and allow critters of all walks of the earth to partake.

Crooked old noses leak houses of snow and the sands of time are in motion in they as well. We unscrew the light-bulbs and shove towels under the doors. We light candles and hold them to the ceilings, gazing in awe at the little droplets descending almost as a telling of the chaos of all things, until the ceiling is no more and we are exposed again to the night sky and all of its secrets.

Confetti finds its way out of our ears, our eyes, our pores, our souls, to blow away and form tiny silhouettes in the night sky, only to be seen with it's colors and textures when in quarrel with the fire on your fingers, exposing the bone and it's mortality.

Clouds veil the infinite suns (but spots to we, the lapses of knowledge), and the blizzard from the crooked old noses returns to us what the candle had manipulated.

A judgement life walking about in the gardens of the town, hands in it's pockets, it's face under it's shadowing hat, it's eyes at it's shoes, is the one who paints the skies of the man under the garden bench. A blood red moon gobbles them up like a crazed bear in a rotten pumpkin patch, ripe with the dung beetles and mud toads moving about without comprehension. But there are others who float about in the plasma clouds, and embrace the inevitable riding of the rail, back down to the flaming fly, being consumed by the mold within our being.

The mountains arise at the snap of a finger and grow ears and eyes, for which to hear and see the direction of their progress, and in doing so gaze upon the plasma clouds and see many skulls and many polished feet and melted plastic on glass, thickening the atmosphere.

The dynamite shapes the mountain and the little pyromaniacs gaze out onto their empire, confident that the stars will have it all back to themselves again in due time, but the ticking of the clock that points towards this shining and void return is but a metronome, refining the thickening stench of the sulfur in our hells by tuning it like a pipe organ of some magnificent magnitude.

The ocean sucks up the moon and births from its bosom the sun and the stars are tucked behind our sphere again. The houses of snow melts and the townspeople bathe and gossip in the steaming waters, as if back at the hight of the roman empire. The goblin and his angel smile and begin digging.