red hot wax, seal of revulsion.

a morning peck on the critical

mass of your night.

neither girl, nor woman--but some

other phylum.

some pathetically behorned Nordic

malformation running fantasy.

breaking out in despicable rashes of

behavior--begging the sum of holiday.

a thrown wind come to inhibition...

rags to the tainted shroud of wouldbe suicide.

encampments to chameleonize, lie-configure

***** itch rock n roll.

by the powers that be--cessate, sink a one man

stone into earth, as pledge your loyalty.

threads of sound leave

goosebumps on the walls

of a retiring labyrinth.

whose guide opens his

mouth to scream into his

lover's.

supplanting echoes slowly

glisten like excited skins.

terrified harmonics shocked

to completion.

the cut up of a wet palm, in trust

of a wet palm.

destined for something.

the wild in going her separate

ways coveted a whisperer, secretive

as final exhalations.

breathing back, right in his face--

sent for to walk off the edges of her

unclosing wound.

suffering the terror-growths of

her inward and unanswerable calls.

every moment feeding the pyre of

inner gurus to heal the wild of

her separate ways.

we're waiting for confirmation:
something has happened, its movement
already went thru what braces for it.
spun hands over praying mouths--
a finished dark pushed all the way back
& then some, held up to itself.
where a treeline fills in its watchful deepening, as it's pulled downward.
ankle-high smoke comes out with the
audacity of ****, ripped away from
starving fire.
a drawf rolls out of a playing card, to
measure dimensions.
wearing a jester's hat with no bells--
his field of vision gadging his height,
interlocks with curious fear.
tracing around the wickedness that was
recently there.
wind up hares ***** up their ears & fall
on their sides.

The seating of cafe patrons saw minds

measuring space.

More exact with the inexact, as to

encompass something of mind.

A fine drizzle g spotted greenery

outside, as beaping horns coincided with

the draggy swash of an espresso

machine.

Producing the skidding sound of

tractionless tires, which momentarily

made one scan the street for a collision.

The circular logic of round tables were

inescapably bright.

Cropping up in the middle of

conversations after closing time.

Thus completing the orbits of business

hours, with missed crumbs more

profound than takeaways.

during the: Teatro alla Scala's

opening night (August 3, 1778).

Antonio Salieri's opera:

L' Europa rinconoscuita, a

chandelier so happened to

crash down...because all the

attendees were staring out at

one another with binoculars.

at the same time.

A ravenet nods & bristles ebon--negative

two thousand & twenty-five years thru

its scryed vision.

Gone before: 'Be gone!', therewith a

daemon at the ready.

Wraps roots around treetops, as a Garden

burries its Sky.

Flower wind spinners act as galactic

corkscrews, hypnotic wind of

clockwise-counterclockwise rotation.

Dialing in to a split, that the daemon

unhypnotizes, which turns into a green

jello synthesis.

Its genius of holism added unto.

The charming prosody of atmosphere, is

metered by the daemon.

As plastic table cloths flap & paper plates

flip--the ravenet clacks its beak.

A soothing habit it visits when

atmospheres & Ages commingle.

An oval daguerreotype window scene,

bordered by frost on a blistering day.

diecast leaves sheer off

their windblown sounds,

from the concreted spans

of their cycle.

as trees roughen their

sketches for night-callers

come unexpectedly earlier

by the day.

the seductive tips of their knives

flirting with menace, who turn

on a dime to the puncture wounds

of stars.

a globular aftermath for the moon

to split her shell in.

I can't hear the voice in my head, because I affected changes in the way I spoke since I was able to manipulate its medium.
I never thought about it--another incarnation just toyed with my vocal chords.
as if my foundation knew it would tilt what sat on it.
I was compelled to make sure that I would never know myself, its origin hissed like pissy holy water.
all the rest that crank out humanity would revise their approach to fiction because of me.
it was never enough for me to know that I too am God, I could never share my image, yes--my image!
of jellybeans & colored time capsules,  let me dissolve in this sugar cube!
I'm astonished that I was unhanded by so many once touched, they will thus feel the chills of my mania without the ability to shiver.
this will dull them with empty-handed inspiration, they won't be able to walk through deep-freezes of cloud to ground lightning.
how the psychologists circle-**** to me,
I really want to symptomatically convince them out of their misery.
I lower my gotcha-green head like a worry sick Madonna for them, all this superfluousness authenticates my unknowable selves.
now to my voices, how do they sound in my head you might ask--well who's asking?
I talk to & at my selves, so the voice is most certainly vexed--but in a whiney & nasally way.
it's an exorcise/exercise in futility to describe, nonetheless...I always sound like what I'm looking at, I can sound like a chair.
It's all the voices inside that do this--they don't like company so they become it, anything external basically.
it's reflexive & creatively fruitful, you should hear the voices in my head during vows of silence--they both regurgitate & originate.
I'll gift that can of worms to the head, head-shrinker...picture channeling a phone book into the ear of a whitehole.
I can speak in an assertively calculated voice on a slippery *****, that gains the footing of trust, I favor that one.
I also do famous serial killers when I'm most peaceful, it helps to fertilize the soil.
I need to cultivate one for the books, premiere it right here--the egregore of this
eyeless capstone.
I gouged it out in plain sight--I have a voice for that too.

Aphrodite sits massaging her temples,

while smelling perfume on her wrists.

Scent's vestige losing memory to

departure, till the dead pick up on it.

You'd think she's perfectly spent, but

she's water's thirst in the flow of her.

The beauty sleep of stones, adjusting

light to their changeable features,

unperturbed by their violent

connotations.

She is the one that tells desolation, she's

glad it opened up.

A lyricality that bursts wild berries in

bird beaks.

Never accusing you of seeing what you

want to see, her nakedness drives her

spiritual veilers to hysterics.

Their dearest Aphrodite will catch cold--

she just eases them off, mad to be taken

deep by being.

Panting at the ribs, you'd think creation

was being licentious.

a desert's sapped gold, desolately

faced--struck by serpents whose

venom is a rising chorus.

vanity mirror of a sun that cannot

be imbued by secondariness.

spittle oasis' of a wanderer sinking

journey-less steps into the wending

tracks of serpents.

strung and unstrung along by dead-silent

arrays, multitudinal whispers of demons.

the slow decomposition of worship,

a promise to a promise, to a promise--

visibly lost.

there it was--verdance under snow.

its geographies of memory, passively

unrecollected.

tapped into by charged revelers,

drained from the outset by expectation.

the specialness of once a year waits

around for all to go well--very well.

yes--there was verdance under snow,

that seemed to gloat.

gothic appraisals of vanquished love--

an auditorium at maximum capacity.

a vampire standing ***** before every

wooden seat.

in the dead of, in the dead of, in the dead

of night--breaking the neck of what turns

back, in pindrop hollows.

all hissing simultaneously, at the girth of

loss, trembling with elation.

the alone kindles the alone,

desolate fires that aspirant

nights sit around.

already ash to the cracking

sounds of wood, revealing

the vagrant faces of a single

step.

from and toward a journey

that betrays itself by name--

remaining forever a stranger

for daring to show up.

Private worlds expand as we contract--

it begins by thinking of a number &

telling the mind to guess.

A highly ambitious paranoia, a do over

for every correct guess.

Four hands & a gazillion fig leaves later--

here we are, as if denying accusation.

As privacy self-edits for lay readership,

readership is at an all-time low, because

everyone is too busy self-editing.

It seems like heros/heroines barely set

foot on terra firma, before these private

worlds are unceremoniously destroyed.

These gameshow windows lit by private

residences.

I believe this to be telepathy-pains, the

paradoxic response of our collective

doubleness to thwart the internet.

What was once relegated to the realm of

private, is now public--so interiority is in

hyper drive.

Big Brothers & Sisters--toilet bowls must

remain sacrosanct!

Eventually, Idios kosmos will implode

inward--& become symbiotic, fiber optics

is just the safety net of cross-cultural

telepathy.

This doesn't mean I'm going to whip my

**** out & bang a bongo anytime soon.

the specking drone of

fluorescent lights

ungrip flies, from

their ribs.

upside down on

neat slabs--that

decide to flicker

a bone.

with hospital

expulsions of light.

lightless cessations

underground--pushing

against the crumpled

lightning of roots.

sparking its sensitive

wires that blow open a

casket like a safe.

ego wears wicks,

there's no passay.

flames only want

to comb thru the

knots of trees.

moths have mastered

peripheralities.

in a monsoon, heralding

the blackout of a snowflake.

crippled on a leaf, mulching

symmetries of soil.

the rable of a star's emotion--the right

static for the wrong mosaic.

tuning out at full volume, a star system

from the inside out.

its reverb over a ******* Jack house--

that comes out as: "Endless Nameless".

while flashing red lights keep time.

no--this is what bad blood in a tree's gnarl

can trigger, how it starts digging.

passed on many occasions, never noticed

before (not really).

buried revolutions of seeded spells--

casted on as they cast.

a moondial with cramps: 'what's come

over you?'

is what we ask ourselves, before others

ask.

where we reply: 'i was going to ask you

the same thing.'

therefrom a planetary chain reaction

would be too predictable.

as would a demon slurping a plum pit,

pointing to the aforementioned star--

saying it feels one-fifth apprehension.

i attended the funeral of an angel--

not an extraordinarily virtuous human

being, but an angel.

it lie there as a solid beam of light.

wings condensed to a blinding soar.

then the demonic condolences came

rolling in, as the space around that

beam of light transfigured.

thick and hard...the nausea of no way

home, was captured by a flailing incense.

that flowed downward, emitting no scent.

no more raw

than the cloisters

of breath.

a two-way mirror

that enlists a wind

to one end.

a hemorrhaging flood having

flashbacks--too lucid to pass away.

making vaster its return...an Ocean

that is given.

paralleling unreachable shores,

plumbing unreachable depths.

far gone and wetter than water,

where a sky drops its mirror to

summon its shards.

where silence detaches enough

to harden its shell.

rolled around the pearled eyes

of behemoths that follow something

larger than themselves.

purposeful hands setting

a table--lighting sealed by

the approval of Old Dutch

Masters.

the wrought passing of plates

before they're passed.

a homely kingdom, a devoured

morsel--the speck in a viewer's

eye.

aerated frame, darkened sphere

revolving.

a shadow marionette of an

anthropoid, is controlled by superstrings.

it is bound to the outermost groove

of a blackhole, whose last audible

recording sounds from it.

exclusively sent down to the surface

of deep sea oceans across the earth.

occasionally overawed fisherman will

see the performance of its danse macabre

when dawn's most brilliant.

becoming incontinent when hearing the

extinction of sound via song.

I astrally projected to the flat depth of a

specified sky--emptied out with upturned

eyes.

saw lightning come down like a cracked

body.

I heard no-sky move & the earth sink.

electric ants colonized me back to my

feet, on forest ground starving for dead

company--as the living lag between:

let there be light.

there was the same crack of lightning

that passed through me.

the supine speed of itself on snow,

motionlessly making brilliances more

exceptional.

turning snow ashen by comparison.

my awestruckness took longer ways out

of me to approach it.

as if reaching down repeated the initial

impulse to touch it--which felt like

translucently warm skin fresh between

worlds.

it was to hold an imaginal hand more

real, all-knowingly possible.

all the way home--I held a blinding let go,

I couldn't let go of.

the plan was to stay up all night & look at

it with the lights out.

The spectra of superimposed motions

continue to creepeth forth.

Think the beaded string of a raindrop,

strung over since the first rain.

Similar to the cut of silver chords--

sounding the arpeggios of a rainbow.

Beside the birds of A Feather.

As Maat weighs in--Once & For All.