I am an embryo I am a layer buried in the snow. Gasoline gushes over my face.
Because I was in school when this chapter happened I will be buried in a reflective catacomb from which each strand of this story shreds away and bounces from its impact hurtling back from its own image.
Snow drifts covered everything within the rolling confines of our schoolyard, and this merry-go-ring frozen
image of faultless castles and pure white drifts of illusory perfection helps me to gaze lucidly into the pristine flask that shines back through the gore and carnage that smears the short childrens hallway through which I walk forth and again back to to pick up the chronology of these events.
I left early, therefore I have a perfect image retained from hovering forth in a capsule of fragmentary time over the course of phantasms and spasms wrought from a drowning and burning death.
I was shot by the poolside, and I beg you not to lie if once you have heard my forsight and rationale  you would not also choose to leave early and drop off the doorstep of a massacre.
I was the last to leave the school because I was hiding and because I had already heard the ghastly sibilation of gasoline melting through the empty winter swimming pools catch of drifted snow, I knew that regardless of my choice I could still be forced to enter this final domain.
Could I be shot and thrown in lingering pain into this same communal tortuous pit to soak up my alotted share of neural incineration?, although I had just opted to refuse it however relentless was the alternative that I incurred.
I was just lucky to momentarily evade a final annulment of sadism, because both of the two bullets that pentrated and shattered my left shoulder blade and the right side of my upper rib cage felt like the deliverance of two kisses from my mothers snow white face looming large over the snow and covering one at a time my left and then right eyelids as a lay down to sleep.
I watched a sleeping dogs-eye view of chaos and my brain still hurt and my teeth ground and I felt the ashes of tiny school children fill my nostrils and pack my sinuses and my temples ached.
I had tried to run and yes, it was the young deed of a will to self preservation that allowed me to choose to be shot rather be flung into a sinking gasoline mush pumped from simple petrol carriers over the faces of  my screaming young companions who thrashed but achieved not.
I knew that at any moment there would an apocryphal cataclysm of fire and a harsh crushing burst that would thrust me into my own snowy pit apart from the others as their limbs and rent bellies rained down overhead me as I continued to hear their screams again and again and again.
Exactly how all of this mess would ignite I did not know. I had feared that even the first shot that coursed through me would miss and somehow of itself lay this melee awry.
Sometimes my mind scans back in a childish dream-time stupor and creates variations and suddenly terminates the end of the story; or throws a rash of meandering confusion over the direction of events,
and the images and characters scramble and the conclusion rides in rapidly as I am left to linger in a dizzyingly numb after-impression seared upon my retinae.
Sometimes I play with the components as a child plays with plastic toy soldiers, and everyone in this story jumps into this ravaged war-time school genocide . . . this morning as I sought to graft the rays of gray february light upon the reflections threading me back to the beginning of this tale, I also saw the conclusion where the soldiers simply stood by the mushy depth of churning murky snow floes lost in a golden yellowy mass, and threw their grenades upward waiting to be engulfed in the ensuing slaughter . . .


Garrishly outlined blackened eyes watching me from mausoleum walls, speckled petal stains of crimson juice . . . , Tears lolling lushly from the charred carbon cataclysm of incinerated stacks of bone. A rent veil of distilled vaporous crimson juice trickling into smudged petals of stains . . .
You just don't understand, do you, that I was lost listless lackadaisically scratching a millenial etched furrow through tugging muck nodding with a nudging gesture of my head to the bow, standing above the prow ploughing in this skiff,
. . . playing violin in the Devils' own violin concerto, sawing tender lilting melodies upon the moaning residues of staved voices cascading an oars lopping chop of hard ghostly waves against the stacked skulls of either shore,
. . . never able to clamber up the toe hold sockets of empty jagged jawlines and eye holes with the rest of the dead.
The Words . . . a sigh in the sea I feel crazy, as if my lungs had something to puke,
. . . the trashy geysers sprouting in my mind that I just can't admit to - I feel like a rat that can hardly hang on oh so close in our pack of rats,
. . . the green froth of waves the torn rope we scurry to get our teeth into.
A new crest of disorder - night shall fall will there ever be peace . . .
It is neither pleasant or unpleasant, it is just an endurance and this is the only if only reason to ingest drugs.
The Words whatever they may be in their fragments are the object . . .
Millenial thinking is transference pyschology: wouldn't you prefer to daydream before the guillotine blade whacks your head off?
Entombed in salt, the dry wavey fetid husky membrane of a shriveled bat blanched in camphor and sucked through wild crisp and shiney tears of shellac crunching under the severe inhalation of menthol and damar singed in the hard crustasceous exterior of peyote buttons . . .
Life remains a strange and lurid prismatic cartridge in its full measure of aquatic debris, chimes and wonderful bustling bushels of spawn and dry sterile solitude slants down in many carbonesque slated graphite laden tworls of etched blackened rays catching my face in benign isolation.
An inaudible solemn marching of slow insect clacking accompanies me, that clusters and collects in small broken clouds at about a depth of several inches admidst the floor. Cockroaches who are all heavily weighted with ecclessiastical or monarchial titles, bishops and kings, dolefully as secluded as I am.
And as I sit several deep grooved channels of blackened streaming chunky gore, like a soured and slightly overcooked soup of pigs blood congealed and thickened in silent time but still turgidly dripping weightedly like a mantled clocked pendulous decline streams from this vast graven wound of my heart, deep . . . , like a dilapidated rain rail crumbling at its entrance to my chest in
several hanging rungs or engorged troughs weeping like a memorial, an empire of tired banishment, a reign, sovergnally enchained with cold bars of hallucinated tears, a deep misty and slightly obscured solitude, bloodily running in three tracks from my heart.
A sharp scaled lens of fire calcified paradigms, a charcoal sprayed shadow of an engraven eye luster full of an arcane spiders intricate aerasol bombardment : Lucifer is a dead wisp of smoke curled into coprolite footstone shoring the infernal tiers of highway overpasses.
Long before a shuddering quiver exhaled upon an embryonic perambulatory parade cloaked in ecclesiates charades . . .
the sputter of red juices tired romance of Roman bloodsport and sun peaked hallucinations of Blue-Capped Baltic seas . . .
They are pollen head Arch-Fascists with Bees mandibles bespeaking poetry cloaked and shrouded in time tarnished mantles, cloaks of Psyche dredged from a bloody tissue laden sea, statuary fragments of gore, the psychic fragmentary faces as familiar as footsteps in a nightnare: but psyche is a bleeding Dream and its contusions are fragments that trickle through an incredible birthing pond of blood that is rent through a dilemma of flights of storeys of stairwells and cellars and dank open sunshine dripping through the dilapadated home of stars and wind: Their faces rise from the tossed fabric of sleep, deep trenched capsules of coffin land plots immersed in catatonic divination. Wisps of combed lantern rays bobbing above scorched charnel thistle.
The subcutaneous whisper of a wasps drone rises to the searing lash of molten glass and a scream echoes out past its demise to wither aeons of chalky desert dust  . . . a tender weightless birthing medium through which they emerge . . .
. . . masturbatory of fetuses in sludge Rot . . .
you're given what you know . . .
every day I feel like the night killed me and dredged me out of my sleep.
Like battalions of loose teeth left over after a holocaust my labels are Nightfold flicker on Dreams . .

Ontological Scatological

Exorcism signpost fission. Trekking through a blurred shudder of penumbraic
of chromatic fractal rays milking latex white. A fine filament quakes and a small quiver with soft penetration in a brief lapse of rupturing waves spills across the black glass table the gentle mantle of Starfish limbs muting the
heavy glare fumbling a chime of fractured lights. Think a kneaded object with spokes jammed, losing its face oh crumble crisp tarnished algae pounded by
waves of sweat streaming ooze light fractals. Cubric husks fingers lost slithered numb from the secretory tattered kiss of swallowed stumps shorn from gouged mount a pit. Fingers comb in breaking black dank caress grated
and peeled back from the tips at every stroke see remains your eyes . . . your
eyes . . . bound in wet night mucal glimmer a shimmer shade at fade a tired
glance  detects flashes and their peripheral shift over several squared degrees.  Your eyes lock to a passing optic fiels softening gray.
Exorcism and tusks pulled teeth nose snot and bleating . . .
Radio raking its damaged guts through the open starlit corolla a cornucopia
of static silence eclipsing light. Speed shouts of radii plumbing light . . .
Oh devil gear beetles bracing a sphere of rotating angles voice after voice
beaming lost scales of extraterrestrial songs through maddening churning basilica flights a dim dissapearance of mercurial flash cascades in a downward flush of mauve curtain clasping to the emerging chaos of black
swallowing the revels of lightening draining from the glistened dark of collapsing light. A lapse in which a small reflexed tremor lulls a brief quiet
in the stillness of terror.
Cloud clutter breaks and ushers in massive gestures balanced in the grace of annihilation colors of which fibilate into a rainbow emulsion of the Cosmos Vomiting , a dim illusion of consciouness awakes in an Eye of light in the slime.
Fusion hammers out smacking flashes, their clatter intersects at a polarized thrust of black color and gyrates into a spiral cellar depth blown asunder,
their tracks straining below disproportionate blocks propelled on angular force
of rotation.
The eye that glops out through slime wipes a bleeding black window of narrow
disentegrating vision. All heavenly bodies stream through the rotation of interpenetrating axes, an infinite darkening of color after the inversion at the point of intersection . . . soft penetration of screening rays, a gently humorous
quietism in the revolt of horror . . . a time ripple from which the simulates of the rhythm of larger rupturing waves seems to tear down the black ooze bile
smeared across the Belly Sun.


Lulling swarm hone . . . white nuance limbs in trails . Placket jag scale weave of plaques, teeming live cilia thrust, drying into excruded crust and a jacket plank of tankish placoid ridged scabs . City of scabs honed worm receded into pocket sores.
Sand waves and sand caverns, sand wisps and sand tiles, sand sprays and dry sand catapults, sand eyes and sand shadows from heaven, sand obliteration and sand burial, sand grave and sand terrain, sand torrent and sand whirlwind, sand grate and sand tooth, sand wasps and sand grass, dry deranged lisps of smattered dragging files of sinking receding waves and whispers torment of realms shuddering atomizing.
Exohuskcartilages creepy snout roots in empty dream: Projection surrounds you Mr. Skull . 2001: Creepy Posits, musky tusk of Nights Lusts Flapping, Creepy comes on with a hood cankered snout, a costume cloak over a stairwell of ten levels, a Lower Nadir sunspot sears its' path upon a retinal leap, larval tubes of polyester gleam, the pious pontificates. Synesthesia, . . . rebirth of particles . . .
Jesus I wash you of my sins with Creepy play tub grubbing, scummy bathwater sins in a charred granulated coat of carbondated ferrous cinders . A perfectly pious clearlight charred as an incinerated core . . . a spirit photograph . . . .
Safety Distance playing in the Desert Storm and stress of whacked cartilage exostructures: moan in a sandy whirl corpses whittled on windy filing streams of rapid fine teeth.
Sand teeth sand bone sand threads sand sores sand dry bleeding sand.
Sand of gorged locusts of sand of wedges of scuttling fragments of flesh.
Fleeing from pillars of dry sandy disentegration . Verily unto thee spittle caresses and worms cavort and cankers spoil upon the hard cartilage of withered wasps seeped in tubs of prickly brine and lids clasp and sigh upon those Dream bartered nights of childhood, feet softly melding upon the quiet sandy paths.
Outside my house in chains strapped and inpenetrable: I remember my house bleeding when I was young.
Epiphany of snowy dreamy sighs.
Epiphany of christmas hares in the wealth of crosses crosses, the wealth of ecstatic white fur and grease drippings, eating . . .
slurp, . . . slurp block slurp block blockage mangled sausage tongues block slurps in every tongue, fecal thoughts drip off the edge of the page . . .
Systematology points inclusion crosses pointy poignant crosses hurked across fucking jerks crushing fat baby births.
Mind billows time in turds shit thought, turds slime into sand composite, residues and rolls into sticky fecal apostlements.


Heit thisthing was dying deft bereft and I wish that I could describe the small balls of accumulative activity that collected in twirls upon every shelf over which his palms and yellow nails dragged in words other than neurotic, but the attentive loving devotion to post-existive grease clusters that he compiled with a deep microcosmic gaze of molecular dissection cultivated his attention exclusively and every nuance of human excretia became singularly amassed according to the maintenance of obsession.
Imagine the obligation that arises from every detail that is deposted after copulation when the nose is as attuned as a hounds and searches for riches and frustrated begins bifurcating into secondary traces in an attempt to further origins of the objects and products of distracted lust.
Here then is an isolated and religious man who would devote a weeks seeking and detection to uncovering only the fine filigree remanants of hairs of a breadth that were undeniably certain to have fallen only from his loves anal region.
Such a mad beauty of insight could describe beatifically those most tremorously fine shades of distinction that calculated the determination of a hair originating from the declining curve into a
slight and full crease adjacent to the mons pubis in contrast to the falling well of bristling bouquet that springs forth its' own lush bush as it drops away from her anus and swells into a valley through a division of thickening broadening lips, hillside knolls that smell wildly.
I am not judging, because I have learned so much and by watching have learned to construct the most utter respect for this process. I am at a loss to describe this as anything other than love.
Here in a foundation is laid and there after a universe of growth is free to roam as its' devotion guides and education is in turn the fertile tool that pries an endless vernacular of taste and writes in its' look and search a long long corridor of tomes naming each of its' praises and exultations.
The books themselves are obsessions and the accumulative mass of weight through which we must traverse in order to understand their depth is perhaps what is most rigorously worthy of our respect.
Here an entire new forest begins, a depth of density and overflowing overgrowth that is self maintaining, out of a deep welling force of intuition that is pointless to uncover or question.
I watch his hands as they compile, through the use of the appropriate agent. A pair of tweezers constructs a mountain and how these mountains are fastened to their foundations is irrelevant because I have attempted to establish a rationale and with every new instance of their rising I have discovered an indeterminate occaison summoning a play of godly spirits.
As I have suggested none of this is simple and it cannot be unraveled, but I have tracked through the lions path of earwax and found the discombobulated remnants of an entire ring of ankle hairs taxidermically embedded in a brownish residue and devoted in its' redolent and brazen statement to exclaiming a new and uncovered site of reference which when I quietly hold and expand on a breath and a thought I follow out to images which arouse me as I visualize them arousing him . . .
quietly, unexpectedly as with the silently folded leaves of a plant turning into new shapes and sizes.
In my mania I too find myself aping his postures and thoughts, and to convince you of the passion and devotion I would like to persuade you as to this being the sole mystery that evokes religion in the quiets and quietudes that pool like shadows around us.
I am so certain that in this is the entire mystery of life. This search and the conformity that it demands of its' true believers.
But I am not here to turn this into a cult or dispense jack-boots and call out a cadence: I am declaring my utter and unwavering love for this passion. The observation of which encloses its' own river and streams and your soul you will find is sitting by its' shore . . . except that it forks either way about you, and behind you, and soon tendrils sprout from both your asshole and genitals and you will observe that it grows even quieter than it was before this . . .
The passion is vibrating in the core of one of these hairs and your feet are conveniently at the ridge from which the center may be entered. To see this is religious and to feel even quieter and stiller is godly but you back down and watch the movements of her enterprises . . . and then sometimes your attention is broken as other voices enter the room.
Again the most rudimentary magic must be called on and again you are at a plough feeling fortunate enough not to be walking beside the oxen.
And if you are smart enough you will know that the beginning does not have to be reconstructed, just quietly observed in its' passing . . .
Oh god, don't you see I love him because he falls in love again and again. And you pretend to be smart enough to be aware enough to recite a role call of the location of each and every one of your own hairs. I say you are stupid because you cannot even pretend successfully to submit yourself to a test where the godly one strokes itself and tells you that the scores will be given before the test is administered . . . ?
Over all I love the safety of indetermancy. I could tell you about the piles of scalp flakes.
Perhaps the thorough consideration of methods of affixing and securing can be ascribed to the pragmatic realm, because I am not completely sure that the choice is commeasurate with the content. But that too perhaps is entirely subjective. What matters in fact is the replicating construction of monuments that are in fact defiant to death.
And this is not a fault because I fault you to find error in the atifacts that descend from a mortal author toiling to achieve access to the realm that winds in the pit of his eyes.
And if there is fault to be found let me show you the irrelevance of your criticism, siting foremost a singular attention to his drug addiction . . .
I find that within the realms he has shown me there are numerous layers that cascade wholy upon the axis of his perception . . . I find not a evasive movement in these projections, rather I enter as into a documentary in which I find that I am taking my seat late, but as in all true persuasions of love I am soon convinced that the movie was begun at an ideal time allowing me to enter in to the rift of a spreading rhythm destined to carry me most efficiently to the highest climaxes and saving me in the drop from the highest peaks . . . his drug addiction is in fact aligned to the most basic components of sounds that emerge from the emmission of data that is self-inclusive and to that extent daunting and unparallelled in its' complacency and organic generation of camouflage.
Most of all there is an acidic taste that precipitates his arrival, and so at moments such as these I am safely held in the boughs of his bureau, and an arrangement of mirrors affords me an insight to further acts of duty and participation, for having grown accustomed to my journalism he now finds that his work is ramified by anticipation in the material world, that sheer repitition somehow insures a higher degree of success, that tailoring a school for a single disciple creates an unfaltering pursuance of expertise and refinement.
And so it is that I am merely a student. And by becoming completely a student I find that everything is explained for me, explained by the actions that encompass each day. If you look closely at this picture you will see that there are never any words. And when I turn away from this arrangement cold shudders seep quickly up from my finger tips, which are cold even at this moment, and I soon desire nothing other than an end and escapement. And as soon as I have a new listener I hope that this time at this point that this time for a little longer a little more of the text will relive a longer duration of continuity until you grow tired and shut off the light, or like me you decide to put on a condom.
The escapement however has other tours and they are long and quickly achieved and even here I will say nothing bad about them. In fact they are too friendly and their friendship breeds utter malignant boredom. Do you see now why I am always setting bonfires around my head?
And I hear you muttering that this utterly fucking stupid, but why don't you go fuck yourself with a pop bottle?
Fortunately the teacher realizes that I have a penchant for getting drunk and while I was off raving he had already begun something new. God just sitting here I feel stupid because I'm going to imagine that I missed the most important part of the test.
How can you help me?
I want out.
Go fuck yourself.
The bastard never forgets, and between you and me these are his only moments of humor.
I need to go poop, but he's laughing and the phone is ringing.
I am miserable.
Personally my attention wavers, and I noticed all of you getting sleepy too.
I'll get back to it tomorrow . . .
Dimlight silt and virtual radiation.  Abstraction of salts lifted and corridored into subliminates.  Internalized into a quick  vaccuum jump up into a half-tone before ingested into white and dispersing into mind screen dramas. Any Play is tactile limbs thrust into erect structures diagramatically unfolding the
delineated conflicts of finite melting capsules trailing through that thought medium into which they are cast.
I am suggesting that we are getting beyond these sorry chants . . . I call them characters for they have chtonic shapes . . . and previously we have known that they weep and call numbingly and their moans
have set into play many atrocities . . . the echoes of their forms still mold the vacant contours of our idle
stranded media residues and vomit back many stray trickles of foam and at first appear shipwrecked
upon our shipwrecked mental shore, although soon we are settled and despair of departing our affinity
to random comforts knowing their receding waning sound to resemble that of their approach after an
impossible abscence. Listen, . . . a long shuddering backward cawing, a roar and a choke falling,
departing . . .
Another soft wind swept splash, a deteriorating atmosphere of mottled hues lashed together in the air,
a rust wrought concave rot bearing a tangled weight of spaces smudged together. A pooling spray of acetone droplets drains through this vague assemblage hardly reflected through refractions of deluging
clouding mists, a soft wash field with undertones of dripping contrasts melding or vapor whorled abruptly.
Your eyes are not yours and to not even have seen the disappearance of prescence is to have been already immersed and enfolded by force of wild airborne minerals and drooling deposits, a grimey
crepusculance pitting the floating mollusc mylar dragging over your face. Wind wash and spit blowing over your eyes.
The ladder in the whirlwind of circles-multiple consciousness: the disc of light: a memory calls it the reflection of a crucifix and disappears rapidly in the glint of a scimitars illumination: a gods finger closes your eyes. The Sour Ghosts of Christianity sibilate a wet tired song praising the eclipse of reality: do you accept the brunt of stilting the radius?: Remaining abrupt at one locus absorbing inward the pain of black fluxing moons.  So utterly crude in a crowd of horns: so utterly nude in a cloud of thorns: so utterly assunder abreast a nest of a nettle crowns crest: a glitter wickedly fraught upon a glamour pile fragment assemblage studded with brine in a nether-never lands reflection in from a pendulant lashes crash of crystalline nodules sublty prickling brightly; Tears of bones; eyes yield slid gangland style. Avalanche of bouncing ghosts and plastic skulls off the Dream-Core. Walk out through the cold shudder of bogs. Blue cotton billows wind from knotted burls and clutch at the root of your each step as I traverse a thought that places plank after plank first one way then another upon the chill of night.

In a deception of phosphorescent natantia the cloaks council of tartar binge hoard a school of brains that were, I remember, large clumsy insects in class.
All the spelling bee melodies and truncated will o' the wisp words may vanish, all the dark humors may seep backward and clot knots of outboarding vapors.
I look at pools of kelp-like simplicity and coffled fish. Their hoards swim cogged games rattling up steps over blind end nets. Vapor dispersion and locution switches to voyagers filing in sea green cusps of eelgrass and snap against seahorses and fantastic furnaces.
Mandibles crushing rotted rustling under my scalp and lisping suctions hovering small silent puttering patterns of prawn fins fanning bract ventricles of juice pressure.
Rainbow contour, penis gutted.
Shiney slick fish parasol.
Deck groping sea squilla, quills burrowing nabbing teeth trimming drooping foreskin flange.
Chronic spills tabloid sticky pages.
Filet knife puncture under prepuce stream yowling insanity story.
Here a dream there a bundle of newsprint.
Greasey print types crinkles and wraps guts of another story page.
Crazy intestinal yarn chronicle, bucket word of type.
Penis fill gut worm rubber, heavy dripping ring flubs ooze secretion
Drip with words and strange tortures.
Condom mouth gull with over sensory tales.
Squawk mutilate reiteration numbing story lies.
Now I know it's all docks fish and come lying on my eyes. Fisheye jelly patterns and hazey jigsaw puzzles.
Deckscope briney eyed cerulean hue, spines and scales, thalo green, soggy soak seeks up periscope bulging. Strangeman Jack ' O ' Lanterns
Penis Fury.
He grunts and plunges into your cunt with panoramic ease - a chastely religious white purity rises and his member is bound in the clutches of the porcelain sea and its' deep pools of setting spackling putty.
Nickle-plated sordidity, flowers laced with metal residue, carmel trickle that tastes like lemon-crotch potty pools.
Lime tendrils of hair snaps couching pampered powder love poem petals of rusty nusturtium spanking flushing over-ripe cheeks, a pile of cool flesh pool hung from the mount of a padded hip bone.
Imagistic reels of ultra-real color erections mount the tufts of whipped cream, furry pussy marmalade tushes slapped riotously.
Little jism rivulets popping little trickled secretions around a gripping deep clasp of a wide tooling phallic curve. Hallucinate little giggle laughs in bubbles pop barking Cartoons and see big face smile whisper, " Your balls slap my ass like Lily-Petals, the purple charm of pollen flakes aching the crease."
So now we approach the age where we ask "does anything matter?": a bridge and a cove where the impassable lives. We are all so concerned.
Virtually everything in memory will be forgotten. The tip of the nib titillates forward and forward, apocrypha teeth of newsprint bulletins and a chorus of extra dribblings of loose murky lolligags and human wastrels yawing for a beak of minced worms.
Fatty lamb-shank come blood and vaginal mint and acids.
Dick cropped follicle viral spores adjunct to mucal nose in the clavical sea and licheness whorled knoll of tissue conundrum.
Sea-dew of lore, pebbles of noise stacked filters and then lights soft as star tears twinkling across the ocean.
Prick bound in the cloth of its' carrying case. A nudge of overlays plying a shackling pressure.
I think of ruddy carrot nibs in a stew that stains the walls of its' flask, a gas burst from a bubble and hiss of pissing trickling over browned chunks of knots before the pure rice pudding rings wave over the pulse of veins.
The smell of licking wormy clay fresh from the cloven earth rises pushed upward from fast sharp pussy farts a dew that tangs the crimp of every hair in my nostrils.
Ahoy ahead of a tweady mattress clasped around a rhumba and undulating into the seams and grains of sheltering dark limbs of beams enclosing the tossing cabin.
Fields of grey violet dusk and sweeping sleeping rattlers corn, night dreams and stars silty beds of slate, and prisms of longitutde arose. Wet memories joining a damp earthworm trail.
Hairless sweating beads of rabbits ecstatic perspiration: love is possible in a war-planes' cries.
Apocrypha, arched to ache for birth, plethora of nerves and transcendence, the aching is a beautiful parapult because it is unplanned, it is so completely, and it suggests eveything to us all in every language.
My dreams sing endless nightly prayers to the ass-chanel of the goddess Androgyny. Life is this rocking-chair Seahorse on the wind, sails swept like wings through Dove-come. Madeira stained my waking dreams and I laid like that for days and by god I was born again although the placenta fell out of my own asshole.
You are as sweet as Virgin-Come my darling . . .