There was once a small blue dog taking a walk beneath appetite trees to scream with the wilder beasts. Unchanged by therapy, naked and cold. born from form to two green hands and grown up leaves when you leave me and drain out of the universal black hole. the black whole. the entire population of light and darkness, eternal trickery beyond imagination and beyond fatigue. it hits you in the back of the neck and you know. balloons aren't real. Before I begin I should state that I live in a state that is fucked up and my state of mind is fucked up but “fucked down” is down with the color brown. before the dirt on the ground is left for grabs let me call the worms my children and let you bathe in the sea foam and the green crayons are wax like a candle melted softly, burning hotter than palates and tae boe combined, not to mention the combine, we all know the story, it's a circle that chases itself in unchanging description of things you deliver. a robot that births intricate infinite realms of deliverance, and Jesus swims alone when he walks on water but the holy water had a whole lot of holes in it that quantum Buddha could have found and sucked up the essence of eternity from the pope while aliens invaded. I am not really saying this it's just the chip in my head making me type. I get up and I call the cops and the red white and blue sirens say America is pig forever when the government creates a steady illusion of an alien free universe and a murderer free cabinet but don't put your teacups back in the cabinet for this one because we need all the tea we can get. there's more Ayahuasca in the visual language than there is soap in the water supply for the simple reason that all is tenacious and growing more friendly-masked each day. heaven is a hell for those who don't enjoy the air and when the clouds are all just smoke it clears and there is only you a god with a self-governing philosophy record and a mind like cheese and a soul tied to a body with bowties on thin ropes and each pretty second. the international database of collective memory states anything between his and hers as undeniably inanimate but the scale is flip flopped and the circles go around each other just to get a piece of mind. it's all in the mind because flowers are just plant genitalia and doesn't that pussy just smell like a rose when the cat woke up she put a number in a bucket and the intergalactic hovercraft defeated the tex-mex bastards in accounting. still I can't get myself to wake up in the morning because I’m mourning the loss of all the people before me and bereft as they are they still come and haunt the bedrooms and behind the cold tile bathroom there are words on the wall. what they say is up to you but there's not a lot of room left in my head to write the wrongs that disappear around a corner every time the tail is chased and all in all is all we are, still the monkeys don't get their share and the wear and tear of every leather strap is counted on the vitamin enriched calendars that clog the drains and flutter like newspapers helplessly in the wind. still love is a mustard seed among the tangled thorn bushes of hate and there's a green revenge that comes to you if you should see it through. although clear glass can be serine and bring all colors, and the shards can cut and melt a Popsicle in the sunshine. before I begin let me note that there's no music to my ears and no tears to cry for the sick and dying. into impossible realms of scaled down tee-pees that collect the rain like Teflon. still deep in the dirt below the earthworms there's a core like an apple and a secret that is burning with the pain of endurance and the strength of explosion. underwater is the place to live and placidly soak in the sand dunes before gargoyles turn to stone and sink like submarines. although yellow as the mustard we walk beneath the beaches of calamity far from any catastrophe large enough to win a trophies. catatonically rowing on oars without a boat at a silly attempt to make flight in the night slipping evermore toward the imminent possibilities of gringots and toadstools alike. put down not my failed attempts in the pole barn and your cheap shots in the airplane bathrooms while nothing was there to be said and when all was said and done it wasn't quite smooth enough so it was started again. prism rainbows and prison traps cannot deter the passion before yellow made the cut and everything was everything and everything was everything and everything was everything and it danced and that was love: dysfunctional collapse of antibacterial wingspan for far more spawned back to material clans in the wake of forever there was a spark of energy, so in the aftermath of the myth there is a boredom that drones, an afterglow of memory strung through a spiders-web beyond intuition. if ever there was a next-door neighbor, freedom would be it's name and it would not die of sickness for there are few letters in the alphabet that are not sent by mail-men, I bet the alpha that the beta males are far more undernourished than those in the concentration camps. I know you can't concentrate, but if you try you just might juice it for everything and find a hollow shell and shoot it off into the trees not knowing that the breeze was close behind and all theology is merely a joke in bad taste, an aftertaste that drones in your mouth and is reminiscent of blood and pennies, while the scent of reminiscing is completely unneeded by the elephant riders who fathom the earth to be an ivory swirl of greys and off-white retinas on the task force. never underestimate the power of the sandwich, for tuna fish is not completely bogus but complete in the coral-reef ecosystem sense. I sense there is a senseless scent to mindless manifestations of self that people sometimes get caught up in. I know that when the aliens come down the government will ban sex and money will be crucial. The crucible never really caught the full power of the witch and the wizard will remain the control of all for he controls himself. what comes after is a creature and before I get away from myself I should lose some of this blood that I feel I need so badly, but what of the curses in it and what of the DNA that never evolves until death and we are stuck here between a rock and a sad place counting stones and hoping our kidneys don't fall through while we count sheep for friends and walk the line that the Shepard says. she says the lion lies with the lamb and I lie to everyone who can take a joke so that there will be a safety net someday. someday when we're all in good health. Yes, I feel like I'm climbing through a rumplstilskin maze and the walls are a corridor made of suave red hammer jackets. you had it made in your cube though there was nothing much to do and there far to many minutes to develop such a habit and the hobbit controlled the development of cities and mass cities in the sting wound world before the jackrabbits could get to him. it's the intention of the invention to create a new mishap and reshape the organism of life to the point of a breaking but there is no explosion sufficient to recapture the first stages of a game that is more phantasmal than Nintendo. still gods of rock know nothing of the sand and there's hour-glass droppings to the top of the bottom and the recollection collects halos and markets them as rings for egghead's massive scheme while dying men dance in the funeral home. what, though, is the reason for my chivalry if there is blue eggs and red robins to believe in? if the clock stops does the pin drop and the haystack is far to deep to poke an eye out. give me freedom or give me money but keep the drugs away and don't behold the eyes of the beholder because he's yesterday and in an instant you can change it all but then you'll go and die. And all is computerized, cracked out, but only open to the wires, the numerous tubes and programming of linear thought, free reign on a rain-shower of language bits, never to escape the space, never to escape the cycle, content in spiraling through infinity in one's own clueless perceptions, controlling gadgets, manipulating physical shapes, rearranging mental patterns, finding all is nothing, becoming shocked at the burst of everything out this nothing, reaching for a mental grasp on anything, finding only yourself, unlocking doors and birthing yourself over and over the years, floating with time, assimilating others to follow your dreams, remaining at computerized ape status, doomed to wonder. green memories of half drunk glass of indecision before the incision when real yetis questioned black-blue eyes of the primates and hallucinogenic tools for evolution were still beyond our coloured recollection. collecting shells was always an idea and the spirals of the shells were imminently life as we know it and a machine and a machine and a machine.