Sadness chases me down like a mad dog in heat
Clouds eat up the moon
The moon is lonely
Sanity eats my mangoflesh like maggots from Battleship Potemkin
Shit spills over
Sky stretches out
Chainsaw cuts through guts
I think of mother
The world’s ablaze the world’s a haze the world’s fucktard shade of purple and grey the world’s rainy day rainy night waiting for absinthe eyes drooping head bowed flowers falling all falling falling
Do i need to run?
All intellect ends in a cloudy old man
All love ends in a sad little girl
All prisons end in godlike harmony
All perfection ends between me and mirror
Don’t i need to run?
Our shadows rummage through half-broken tombs which once were cosy bombshelters for all those gooey gobble-garbled Universal threeshot wrenchdrenched woebegone trombonestruck goblins
One of these houses they named TS Eliot
Another one they named Marilyn Monroe
All these before Jurassic Age descended on one blatant December midnoon and all was fire flames moths whores carnage decimation cannons boomed out in barbaric brutality. Lions whimpered. Amore ate coolbloo. Coolbloo ate my halo. I ate a muffin. I was a temple. I am a template. Tempted tempest non-est tralalaloolooloombachocolocolayayayata etc etc it all goes in and nothing comes out. I’m scathed. Sorry, I meant scared.
Beijing is a hash place. Sunset is a nasty song. Oh parallel traditions of mortality how i worship o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how o how till the bearded dick-in-hand torch-bearer with sabre-toothed nostrils comes charging down the mountains and starts lampooning this bit that bit of sweet little droplets of innocence shortchanged by the temerity of pearly wisdom tucked away inside the blackbook for otherbirds (mind, not thesebirds. Mind, not sullenbirds).
Shit, the mountains are sad too
Shit, i killed the headless rainbowchild-deathchild-dawnchild
Find three heads and stick them on
Grow up and go insane
Naked rain fucker rain
Monstrous one eyed rain
Sun moon stars fellatio octagon rain
In caves they say history grows older than time
Time grows older than profane yellow masters of beatified cauliflowers
In rapid succession, kings and queens move around this seven-jewelled axis of darkness
Ponies jerk off
Piranhas rise tall and strong from stellar tides and eat from the tree of doom
Bells toll in doom
i in doom
you in doom
we in doom
and we are all very tired – thus spake the joker who had a book of perfect failure stuck below his left armpit and one of pure mayhem stuck below his right –
in a funny voice
before the spanking of the virgin the humping of the three sisters of rot and the musical interlude began
Six seasons hold their grace in a cup of wine-scented words and spaces
Poetry is born.
Poetry is ugly.
Poetry is thirsty.
Poetry is cruel.
What did we do to deserve this?
We were the Titans once
we are all dying tonight.