2. the day in day out ego driven dribble down the side of cheeks swollen from chocolate pudding and the prayers of distant cityscapes are wounds demanding to be fed flaccid ecstasy — push/pull arse/mouth. And even on the twelfth floor there are monsters hiding under our skin, our own bodies rejecting this key-tapping tick-tocking pixel nausea. Heroic public servants, secret widows of infertile fathers, not shadows but lost in distant caves of the other, projecting insulated children into a spectacular space. Whereas, elongated fingers and small perversions made from eternal closets and cheap commodities are shipped in russian doll houses, chinese whores with soft manicured hands placed carefully on stained knickers in swept stalls, upper management big men with recliners worth more than the village of dry dirt and oil residue wanking themselves daily. The big R reality of the Capital T truth, the poor dispossessed fill our stomachs with much more than minced meat, strangled dolphins and peasant bones in unmarked graves. Here in our ground we wait to be paved over with the worker's muscle, the pale grey tongue suckling on the last sour drops of progress, our flesh giving birth to the border. And looking toward the horizon we see but do not hear a billboard announcing repetition: a slow lonely deaf man eating his own head.
3. the liberated holding true to one note scribbled in the back of bars, bedrooms and the riddled wombs of tao. Closed fist for the aching body and open hand for the stoned flooding of this unborn metaphor, twisted soul and open prison, an alchemy order to mind the matter and spit spirit through meta. Our serenity rising with the tides of the moon living in this palm. A secret scar. Psalm. Dancing sutra. The ancestors of anarchistic ghosts scattered in waves of sound. Lucy reminding us of the angelic god that discarded our star personally to make love to lunar shapes, halted consciousness that united with the primordial and it still hasn't cut your leather jacket in the rain as the room leaves the window outside with the sea swelling inside the volume of the throat, bringing one lotus at a time to shaking legs, thighs and the weeping dirt that gave rise to this poet. But below the weather, underground the humming, there is no above or world to hold purple fears of collision, nothing to let go of and no where to fall.
4. the return, cyclical atoms bracing the rapture in pictures — street-scapes and paved faces. Passing by the clothed gentry shuffling hour to minutemen. There where there are still too many willing to compromise their own reflection to save a projection of wealth, status and an opportunity to fuck someone else over. This self — created, an abyss turned monster, the mirror shattered battered and broken on the steps of Jupiter Optimus Maximus a monument to light eternal, this wounded child inside holding close to the inferno, close to the mother's breast. A history of torment and exploitation. Lest we forget all things are not relative, figurative forms on limestone walls breaking necks to forget that we come from the same dust, we suck on the rotting mechanics turned to rust but all eventually decays and unicorns still exist if thought is matter and mind to preach manners with energy condensed to a series of syllables to tell you to harden the fuck up and watch the images dissipate the foreign. And maybe we will stop long enough to enjoy the sight of violet bayonets catching the moonlight as the sun waits patiently to consume this world. Leaving us here, holding this beautiful form — once and for all.