Blue Worm

Andre Masson's bedroom looks quieter when sat in the trees.

The cave has been moved and the walls are loose.

The towels are a vibrant hue, with loquacious plastic tongues.

Your beard is tickling me Ginsberg, but your eyes are shut,

and the entrance to your legs has been closed.

Albert Camus, what have you been reduced to?

Four point five percent of your original liquid overcoat,

swirling in the empty head that's dropped behind the bedside cabinet.

Mersault and the cynical weather seem now fickle yet resplendent.

The hand of Henri Michaux rests within an undeciferable wall.

The lion is moving like water

and we exchange dimethyltryptamine for sea shells.

There isn't despair in my mouth anymore,

only teeth

dangling from the ceiling like the bad ideas of cats.

Garcia-Lorca is on the brink of a rose's nostril,

the eyes on the horses neck are blinded by the panorama of an otherwise

phosphorescent morning.

The morning hangs loosely from the stomach of a dry mouth.

We are not in New York.

Give me a small paper square of Tristan Tzara, so we can revolt against our ideals,

and our own minds.

Des Esseintes is no where to be seen. The grammar of his architecture is too dense for contemplation.

There's an incommodious aesthetic to your knowledge, and the tortoise is dead.

The age has dissipated when the green appeared to be cut open like a dazzling flesh,

spilling green, and greener profusely.

The trees were envious of themselves, but the shrubbery content.

There's methadrone emerging from these old walls,

but no one is quoting Shoppenhauer.

I realise I don't talk much anymore.