where songs of alchemy and diaphragms are carved from otherworldly verse.
We find ourselves with ancient Inca masses and inexpensive curves
rushing waves of pre-existence breathing
flooding over birth mark water tones.
I ask these astral corridors questions; "Where is being? Why is light?"
I've spent my lifetime looking for the moon
when all I needed to do
was flip the cerebral trigger.
It all went film noir horoscopic introspective
analogy emit the involuntary frequency green.
Impressions of directional movements
of words and rhythm
tic tac
tragic magic
blue chocolate increase
Hubba
Bubba Other
The self,
the self,
the shelf.
Stuff can move! / Albert Camus!
and all these Freudian-throwing-things.
Big cyan singing, split syntax of night
the air is the thigh of receptiveness.
We charm the snakes of eloquent technologies
to the extent of inevitable ineffability,
and semantic lamp shade twilights.
Impenetrable smoke rings
expansive undertones blinking
hysterical hysteresis expounding
the unpronounceable palimpsests of negatives.
The God of the gaps
repeating full fat dreams;
A knife.
A knife!
A substrate!
The edible liquid plant that so often perverts the Ultra Mega.
We place noise upon noise upon noise upon noise upon,
dismantling the contents of our bodies onto sofas.
Erecting linear slow motion galloping
alongside logic evoking
60% suicide
whilst the rest
is unimaginable.
Susceptible over harp.
Sound castles, I support all of these conventions!
No one has ever seen so clearly as I,
this blind, grinding whiteness.
The corridor speaks, as tranquil as bird and fever, astronomy
and upwards current,
independent ceiling heartbeat,
the earth
unmasked.
We bathe in the astral delinquencies of florescent belief and phantasms of poetry.
By 11 o'clock
we are reincarnated
detached
with wings that can't be grasped.
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