For optimal delusionary skip:
Wash your dragon eyes
in the thick broth of legends.
Mainline dead energy. Glide,
through masked history, to
your own broken freedom.
Flip the old switch!
Trip the new Head!
Slip the ominous
iceberg:
Let us circulate through
this back-road loupe
like an eight-year-old paper-hat cowboy
tying up a seven-year-old pigeon feather Indian
to the hundred-year-old Victorian chair
in which Great Aunt Opal
became a spark-less pile of meat.
Shadowed seats do help to ease
photosensitive seizures:
Light trapped in twin skull-bound
disco balls quickly becomes volatile.
(<ooo>)
Twitchy-twitch,
inward itch;
glitzy glitches sodomize pleasure sighs.
Components collide on the 2-way slaughterhouse
conveyor belt that held up John Wayne’s cancer jeans.
It all means: Precisely Piss!
^
^
In that moment of naked realization,
I felt like turtle eggs frying to a Jimmy Buffet tune
as Moses played the bottom line on his snake-staff
standup bass. Shades of Les Claypool spread like the Red Sea!
My personal space curled up like a Polio shrimp.
And, beyond the obvious canoodle poodle charade parade,
these trashcan robots taste like an aborted future.
Frankenstein sutures hold the sun together.
The feathers have fallen off of the eagle.
We’ll never see the tomorrow we dreamed.
It is buried on the set of Lost In Space.
The Devil’s face hurts from grinning.
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