As clocks go, ringing nightly through the hole in the center of your movie screen, fiercely begging you to let them begin their counting-
Clipping ends off the the hours until no more is left and the skies are surprised by the swallow soul popping up among their vast hallways of cloud-
Be proud, mon frere, be proud, ma soeur, of the legends that are written when your eyes catch fire and the bibles of dreaming fall like chunky embers to the grass-
Playground chimpanzees run up to you begging for more tastes of your eruptions, you become a volcano of flesh, great gouts of you splashing on the gem green glass-
Let midnight fall all over you to cool like murky water-find an angel to ride away with, take heed of the lusting, grasping hands below and urge with your heels the soaring-
The wild boars will find a way to eat you eventually, with your stitched wrists supplicating the many christs of suicide forward from the bush to sing a hymn at your goring.
Intelligent newspapers slip and tumble in a drunken dance over the road ahead and birds are making random anthems on the power lines-everywhere someone's shoe is always on the roadside pointing toward your redemption-
Now if you could only find a toaster big enough to hold the fresh bread of your new experience and give it back you brown and ready for consumption along with magical fishes by the teeming masses.
Slave, soldier, brewery consultant, janitor with issues who likes to sing elvis tunes, it does not matter who in the end has brewed their tea from you, has screamed their curses at you, has shot you in the hole you already had ready for their tender bullet-
You are a little girl in pigtails, a little boy with a broken face staring out from a crime-scene photo, a collage of interesting animals all caged and tripping on the army's newest drug of wonder, you are the pixie child of buddha and Kris Kristofferson, you are a waylaid orphan eating boots by the fire, realizing they are not leather-
Grin then. It's like an old-timey movie melting on the projector bulb, snapping off the reel, pissing off the blowjobbers in the balcony with it's abrupt ending of popcorn and cum-it needs fixing but who cares? Lee Harvey Oswald is already dead and The President ate the gun, the world is comprised of nothing but porn clerks with a fetish for chewing gum and berber carpets, Angel Falls is cut off at the source by a four year old with a wrench, and someday the Kingdom will Come in the guise of a big fat ball of celestial shit. In summation all fornication is the result of some tenderhearted agony on the part of the one whose bullet hole needs a bullet and if only the first known incarnation of Jesus will come and witness this, handholes filled with holiness, then the finest kind of bliss available on the market will be just a toadkiss away.
