of Joys s Cave

The
Writings
Of
Jerry
Sphinx
(1999-2007)







Appl eberry Press


2
Cont ent s



1. The Seraphic Verses of Herr Liid 5

2. My Cracked Hip
(an exploration of the human anatomy
through the streets of Morocco) 27

3. Once in Wallace 33

4. Nutrisweet 47

5. The Flight of Coco 51

6. Sluggish Deathwish 55

7. The Riddle of Resplendetude
(An Essay) 59

8. Gods Boredom 67

9. The Ragland Soliloquies 75

10. The Simons Baby 85

11. The Catacomb Fetish 101

12. The Perfect Animal
(Or The Great Naturalistic
Adventure) 105









Copyright 2013 Jerry Sphinx. All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission. For information contact Appleberry Press at
appleberrypress@gmail.com.
3
The Seraphi c Verses of Herr Li i d

















4
I am such an old man it seems,
For I read of the gods,
And I contemplate of the ambrosia stream,
And yet little Ive felt through the stones of the world.

They saw the mysterious plaque on the graveyard
embankment and wondered to their scary brains `Who could
have written such pitiful nonsense? It haz bin unt misteri fo
aiges, explained to the puzzled earthworms and curious grubs
Herr Lampond Liid, the fastidious caretaker of this forested
gallery. A gaully slug he was with his fine matured breast and a
snippety whisker on each side of his goggles. In his forties I
guess the mild slugger hed be, but from the slime on his back
youd think he was at tops thirty days old. Unt ya Mrs.
Froitek, politely replied the siliceous slimer, vi hed unt meni
barbarians in de past. To this another pretty worm popped up
her sunflower head and inquired, But ver ar dei naw Mr. Liid,
aur beloved gaide unt mach desired guru?, Dei ar still hiir, u
stupid cow (much rather wormoid she was)!! burst out Herr
Liid rather unexpectedly, much to everygrubs horror.
The muddy crickets and moths and beetles and mites,
And worms and leeches and fireflies and lice,
Were all gathered by the moss hills,
In the damp and foggy air.
They had come to see the rotted art,
Inside the rotted hollow trees,
Where bees and snails had trodden previously,
And left their works upon the walls.
But this outrage they never pondered,
Inside their slippered silver minds,
What could be wrong with poor old Lampond?
They sighed and tossed their slinks about.

As Lampond Liid slid hastily,
Into the understorey and marvelous greenery,
He thought sluggishly of his unbridled flutter.
It meant little to him,
And he worried his shimmering brain none.
As he slouched through the leaves,
And wet freshened bark,
Past the columns of ferns,
And cool temperate oaks,
Planes of sun through the foliage,
Swung their arms around his head,
And the watery drip of the cones by his side,
5
Glowed and shone like blue mirrors,
In the mid-morning light.
Lampond lay there like slugs do,
On his soft doughnut belly,
And caressed the sweet water,
Which now tickled his back,
Down the grizzled grey maze,
Did it flow and slip off,
And glitter the slime on the comfortable slug.
Ahh, unt hevan, unt hevan,
Sighed Lampond in a puff of lazy yodels,
dis momentde luv of de forest,
unt shimmers unt mai blessed torso.
Lampond purred there in a cosmos,
Of his own collective juices.
The ambrosia flowed freely from the goats horn,
In the sugar green ferns,
And it flourished with flowers,
From the hub of his soul.
There were spiders and crabs,
And glass lemons of ice,
And wild storms from the oceans,
Where barbarians submerged.
Cradled there in his hush,
Coiled in arms full of butter,
Lampond glanced for the first time,
At the sky through the trees.
It was covered with snow,
And blue petals of silk,
And the purple arrangements on its wings,
Shone and glowed,
Strange white creatures ran through it,
With their faces of dusk,
And their tails were like fishes,
Curling in the blue puzzle.
Lampond reveled his goggles in this honey mirage,
And for a warm hugging moment,
He was lifted and flung,
Way up into his vision of the most redolent ride,
Into the pink scented garments,
And the droplets of peace.

There he saw,
Like a cascade,
All the art of the skyland,
6
Twas as gentle and clean as the eyes of his love,
Rich in mountains and grasses,
Bubbling fountains of cream,
Lampond tasted the piernik,
On the chocolate-wood homes.
Inside the Bavarian Kingdom.
Lilliput villagers were snuggly melting,
Inside their smoked husky villas,
And they read their fine books,
By the warm autumn fires,
As the brown`nred leaves,
Passed the time by the windows,
Framed with colours of trees,
As they fall to the wet ground.
Her Liid now twoped his whiskers,
And averted his gaze,
Toward the great herd of salmon,
That now tumbled his way.
Mass en masse of blue fish swept the gasspod away,
Down the stream of the skyway upon torrent of scales.
In great tunnel of water
Lampond felt close to his brothers,
As they crashed into pine streams,
Running through jagged peaks.
He was flying down into the waterlogged wood,
And the wind from his eyes crawled all over his face.
He could feel their wet skins,
Sliding warmly beside him,
As they plunged into waters,
Filled with curtains of clover.
His old mates and cods alike,
Asked the baffled slugboy,
Of his depths and algal clams,
`Maybe pearls youll find inside it,
Maybe dragons on the way.
Crossed and milked,
Liid was in fact secreting answers from his skin,
So moist and plump and swaying gently,
And tumbling, floating up the tingling mass.

The Lambpond asurfaced,
Afloat and astounded,
He was wet and chokecoffined,
On his back, floating down stream.
His whiskers were thwarted with gallons of colour,
7
And he sipped from his teacup,
Roasted coffee and pastries.
Boiled cool ripples that streamlined,
The fat wofty along,
Bathed and complacened the slugback,
With warm oils and clean towels,
Gazing up at the snow.
And by Columbus it did from the sunsetting sky,
From the mouthwatering glory,
Of the orange and pinks,
And the lace entwined purples,
That entangled baby-balloon whispers,
And the velvets so placid,
You could kiss them goodnight.
Spoonful crystals of water,
Spiraled slowly through the air,
Quite indulging the pleased Lamp as he floated along.
In the flaky illusion Liid could see fading skies,
As they dragged trickles with them,
Rippling softly yellow tangerine pies.

`Tis more often than not one may die in this weather,
And although smoke was pilling,
From the Timpani fort,
Legends, craftsmen,
And wax crayons they mustered,
Drew up pictures and towns,
With their coffering pastures.
And one morning the sand-crickets,
From their frostbitten farms,
Came out running in sandals,
With the Hope of the Saviour.

Across the trees the night fell swiftly,
And Lampond swiveled in a snoozle,
As tiny bogs felt heavy quickly,
The gastrodermite slid snuggly under.
In his sleep the flaccid blob was clearly paraded,
Down the rides of the fairies.
Bluntly riding on a mellowing night,
The pooled waters were afire,
With the light of lunar trix,
Poor Lampoons eyelids minked and mingled,
But his Clayderman lips,
Spleened the sauce of his dreams.
8
A great many rotations did he babscotch along,
In the great open stream,
Forced and snoring to melodies.
In his bookanised huddle
Herr L.L procrassed of clean living,
An able slugi and three wriggling flagellums,
Mugs and buckets of peas in his Liidofied bugle.
The waters felt warm to the halofed canter,
Furry ribbons and pages from a Homertel text,
Passed his body by many as the rips slept away.

Alas, the ripples came to bear,
A rapid pace and forced to swear,
Into the soup of many ages,
A stream to sea was swung and rushed,
Where tears were drown and songs of darkness,
Whipped around with sacred tales.
The greatest vastness inside the smallest universe,
Of all the blue beasts that the ocean could summon,
This Lamponic pea strolled into it,
Afloat a crispy old sausage,
That was stuck in the waters.
Mafonic plume was coated, rendered,
And joining in the cosmic sleep,
Agrizzled chaos of heavenly order,
Destructive gape, Her Liid danced through it.
Ten giant fish in giant waters,
Heart monsters with their guts filled brightly,
With pain of man and birds flung outwards,
A landscape of the calming breeze.

Amidst the savaging conflagration,
On waters and demons tongues,
Narcissus could be seen squatting silently,
By a whirlpooling column,
Watching Buddha through the spinefex cloud,
Riding upon satanic curses on his Siddhavan steed,
Throwing white lotus petals into black enraged waves.
Sinew Lord Shiva,
Entangled in the woes of the world,
Danced on sea-stars and eels,
And serpents of the deep.
From His heavenly hands He sipped wheat,
And potions of the datura flower,
And sweet divine wine poured onto His golden brow,
9
From the eyes of the goddess Ganges.
His lips were filled with endless sleep,
And wailing dreams,
And thunder in the hair of galaxies.
Mishe-Nahma, King of fishes,
He was darting around in a halogen wrath,
Swallowing micro-organisms and slugs,
With his sunshine jaws and methane vision.
A hundred songs of Hiawatha,
Lulling brittle-like the escarpments,
Of a trillion sea anemones,
Bold to their tube-feet,
Fearful of his love.

Liid was diluted and thrust,
Into the Apocalyptic cauldron,
Through the seven churches of Asia,
Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira,
Sardis, Philadelphia, Laodicea,
Cornering, bounding the edges of waves and waters,
Spilling not an ounce from its gargantuan rim.
In the meso-layers,
Beatrice was dancing inside a carotine cone,
Bars of sunlight as its walls,
And smiling into the stillness of the deep,
Beautiful forever.

Down below in the calcerous krill vents,
Dedalus was riding the pahoehoe flow,
Pouring out jurisdictions onto sand paper,
Falling out of control,
Going somewhere on June 16.
He was helping Theseus out of the maze,
With his spider hands,
And crafting linen thread,
Around the lust of her mother,
Watching the slaughter of Minotaur like a child.

Inside the whirling cosmos,
On top the devouring peist bubble,
In the tunnel of foam,
Finn MacCool with his darling Maui,
Was dancing the Sambuca,
Estranged in colloquialisms.
On his leprechaun hat,
10
There stood Herakles, pausing at Troy,
Homeward-bound with a crocadillo belt,
From the Queen of the Amazons.
He was pumped,
Unaware of Poseidons sea-monster,
Creeping up his scale-blue leg.

How powderless, mixtured, and fixed in a spin cycle,
Pond of turbulent waters and the generation of Kings.
One could build kingdoms from it,
Or be silted like powder,
Cruel and cratering gates of Hadesian complexion.
Our Loid mongrel saw ghosts,
And white pits, slaughtered, carved up,
Frozen, fearless and beckoning,
In the swerving egg-basket.

He witnessed the glory of Chloris,
And her fluttering bird, buxom Pero,
In the kingdom of Persephoneia,
Met up with his mother.
Oh to die in your arms,
Sighed the journeying Ode,
Will the Mercy of Zeus and his earthshaking boots,
Bring me home through the waters,
With their rapids and curls.
In a thousand dreams of the underworld,
Spinning, frothing and glitter,
Liid did suffer a great deal for he did feel cast out.
Branded no-one and empty like the shells of the dead,
Did I poke the boys eye out?
Enquired Herr of his Shaker.
Brooking millions of lashes,
In the turpentine swan-fight,
Gnawing gladly on beads,
Seeds of birds and cropped twilight.
Spent his days like a twister,
Strangling serpents and perfumes,
Blooming carefully like sand dunes,
In a deep fry of wails.
Hair and bleeding bubonic,
Strong like horses of Buddha,
Cursed in stone, endless blaspheme,
He had doors to the snowfields.

11
And then one day like fruity lambs,
They sat in church with brass band eyes,
Glued to brain in silent fits,
Harking folk tunes brandished swollen supertight.
I placed a penny on my tongue,
And sunk like water in my mind,
Blue Nordic scapegoats crazed before me,
I danced on out through pigeon-hole.
Into the chill of nighttime air,
Into a sky of howling grace,
I flew up into starry vacuum,
A cloudless winter, spinning face.
The passion of a man possessed,
By cradling sweeps of earthly trips,
Unearthly bliss forged from them sweetly,
A shivering swell of goddess lips.

I flew with nymphantoils and delta laments,
Into the peace of starlit beams,
My vampire eyes were alive with notes,
And simple words from frosted mouths.
We glided over pagan landscapes,
And nutty groves, spruced, filled with light,
And merged into the understorey,
Where settling beds of moss reside.
There, with my flute and cushion paws,
And hair like blades with rusted edges,
My world was sealed and put to burn,
In smoked dashbeds and deafening screams.
A face I faced,
Cloudless and brightly pastel,
5,000 B.C it wrote on the pendulum,
The acorn of my seven year drift,
With his alien eyes sinking/suction to the paralysed,
And a vortex for the weak of soul,
I strengthened mine,
With the blackest of clarinet sounds.
They played like fire,
Yet cool like the blossoming night autumn breeze,
(just before we set out for our ramshackle affair,
Wrapped in puzzles and gravity smiles,
Windows of remembrance,
And memories of insanity on our mountain bikes,
Memoirs razen to the post-bladder raisin,
A calamity of words and emotions like needles,
12
Life is a sewing adventure indeed)
Twisting in their deluge of sounds,
Anatolian melodies,
Chords from the mountains of Taurus,
Songs of journeys made,
From the salt marshes of Hattusa,
To the coast of the Aegean sea.
Beauty is ancient like the mud in my heart,
Let us drink from the silver stag horn,
And dance like crazy beasts,
For the days are short and the glory within,
Is all but a lament away.
I never wanted to leave that place,
For it was calming and twas all that I needed,
My skin sheets would rupture,
When Id feel that blood rhythm,
It is sweeter than wine,
And takes me away more than any goddess.
But maybe I am young,
And know not the nymphs that hide in bracelets,
Or maybe my mind has been swamped by these bugs,
Insects, my dears,
Alligators from the tailstrings of demons,
Snapshoes tramped in seabeds,
By the strange man with a turtle in his eye.
Spill the beans I shall not Lord,
But make good haste for a price Ive paid.
Entrapped and fed-up was Herr Liid,
Soyed like prawn crackers,
But he knew it was it,
Laden lardly upon his table.
Fate? Great! he burst out,
Swallowing the salt water,
Grand he was like a genius,
Crowned the King of the Ocean,
Sick like King of the Sea for his Queen of the Land,
Liid now spotted, like Lamps do,
The horizon of soil.

Behind his crowned head gathered waves,
And grave oceanic plumes,
Swashing silt from the cross-beds,
Filling mottled stromatolites (they need salt for their
growth dont you know, baby oh!).
The amassing torrent,
13
And, quite frankly, wall of water,
Just behind the Hassidic neckless slug,
`Twas like the Assyrian conquests taking pride in their
crueltylike the folly of King Sargon II at the fortress
of Khorsabad, and the flaying of nobles by
Ashurnasirpal II, he would boast like a plum,
I caused great slaughterI cut off their noses, ears
and fingers, I put out the eyes of many soldiersI
burnt their young men and women to death
Liid now braced his soft body,
For the wave just below him,
It would sweep him to land or engulf him forever.

Wot iz life? sopped the festering bungalow,
Vil it eet mi like curds, vil I ride on its udders?.
Just then a bird be passing by,
She heard the slug weep to the sky,
A patch of golden sun fell,
From her patchwork of feathers,
Clank onto the slugboy in the arms of a breakwater.
Dims of soft peddling rain,
Sprinkled from her sharp beak,
Floating siftly in blend `pon his glass eyes,
And wrinkled neck.
De luv iz hir again,
It lifts mi ap from these solemn depths.
I wander within dis grizzly maze,
A throng of birds and lamp-post sweat.
Tu mi, from oll the bouncing dog-eyed beasts,
Shi sends unt second of her godly bliss,
Among de black-plaques with vague intent,
I sii but grit of future ways.

Indeed he saw the grains like pebbles,
Medals, gold and turned from sulfur,
They rushed, pushed forth,
And clambered upright,
Their cogent smells, bathroomatoid disdain.
So for the record, my Lords and pompgrasses,
A bungled Liid was tossed once more,
Survival perceptive, approaching the beachfront,
At speed of a hornet licking bruises and ivory charts.
Speed-reading his velocity,
Crunching numbers like Lucifer,
Darting pies and log diagrams,
14
Calculating his fall.
Clumsy toast in the brine,
Rocky sediment tusk,
Sponge of coracoid brand,
He was dangling by his last appendage.

Our sour bug was knocked about,
Upon his pseudonym approach,
Onto the stationary medium,
His brains got squashed and funneled abusively,
Our savory pot got squeezed through corals.
The chaos and chives seemed ever so distant,
Light years, cancer seconds,
Kitten echoes of torture in the ephemeral rasp.
Unconscious waves and fainting swells,
Float up they did to his not-so-sober self,
Enticing meticulously the fickle-bodied stomp,
To rest on cushions of numbness and deerskin.
So he did, for he couldnt refuse,
Take the coma aroma like a good swindled bean,
Lampond didnt resist as he sank into stone.

Bones and bread crusts were humming in his skull,
Dulled and quagmired by waveclusts,
Retired in a cementbucket,
Filled with jazz bends and van rhythms.
On the ocean floor he was beating his drum,
Seduced by its melody and its fragrance of life,
Haunted deeply by scrollsnakes,
Batons twisted like DNA in the pulse of a toothbleed,
Crying faintly from sugar cravings.
Milking teeth and teething teats,
Were scratched upon the bovine eloquence,
In dairy sleep he noticed briefly,
Screaming downwards painted hides,
Coalesced rickety-like.
A bag of walnut cream centres,
He slumped on them quietly,
Replaced in a choc-house by dancing ice-people.

Played like rain did the sand grains,
On his slugatope features,
As he lay on the beach with his cheek in the sand.
In dormant stupor,
On his jelly-like pectoral pectolilies,
15
Brushing wavefoam past his lateral edges,
Wishing away all the brine espoused flakes.
Sorry gut,
Like a coastal fringe banana slug,
Weaving torpor and post-torsion fantasies,
In a bundle of inextricable exorbitance,
Wearing lilac sunglasses,
Posing threatening obscurities,
Into the unconscious void.
Buoyed, repulsive and quick-witted,
Standard concern of all fathers to be,
Spitting propane at Santa Claus,
Lashing out at the tooth fairy?
Lash at them if you must,
Stop at nothing if you will,
Quell those Dostoyev ranglings,
Spared a gold coin or two.
Contributing like an Aryan to the great works of India,
Being scolded by deities,
For flawed designs of chariots.

The night was calm and easy to digest,
Clear was the velvet sky and warm were the lights,
That scrapped a living from its underside.
Mild like a childs thoughtful glance,
Hummed a mothering breeze,
Around, up and down,
All throughout the placental cove.
Salty bug stretched with his cheek in the sand,
Flamboyant mistake spat out fruitfulless thus,
In a liquefied snooze perturbed by adjacent galaxii,
Our plump red tomato, `tis the time to wake up.

Slow like butter he winked, once, then twice,
Took a moment to reflect,
Took a second of his earthly lisp,
And propped himself up from his sandtangled bed.
Tight and weary he felt,
Stranded almost out of fashion,
Infuriated by his predicament,
But calmed all the same,
By the Hammond surroundings.
They were beautiful.
Peaceful and hopeworthy,
Spaded ergonomically for future use,
16
And the beach was so tired,
Spread out like arms,
Spreading granules and rabbit hairs.
Pristine waters,
Rushed towards the pale skin of the inlet,
Skewing trenches and tiny watermarks,
In the receding wavepattern.
Reflectors, wristmotion,
And the relish of a summer night at the beach,
Liid noticed pleased to have landed here,
And his backslime did glow in the smile of the moon.
Crooning openly he began,
Time was immemorial to him,
Immortal by its very nature,
Or ready for abuse,
And fragile/vulnerable like Homo sapien.
He felt suspended by the painful pleasure of the cold,
Intrepidly surveying the delicious bayonet strings,
Clinging from his bulging neck muscles.
Arboreal clusters as he looked away,
Around, dancing lightly with his brine eyes,
Across the paper-thin landscape.
As a scanner would,
He scanned and beheld,
Liid picked up freckles-anomali,
From somewhere beyond the cool beachfront,
In the straw-like grasses,
Swaying nodules from the earths core.
Inside his hairy cochlea,
These Roman tunes whisked,
And co-laterally amalgamated,
Fusing deeply in song,
Sounding iron-cold and unique,
Fresh footslapping on wood.

He followed it lazily,
Still adaze from his wreck,
Sneaking cat to an egg-basket,
Omelet of young birds,
Hunting them insidiously at night in the garden.
By the moonlit stepseeds,
Lampond was creamily sliding on his belly of sand,
Hanging outwards like a corpulent attraction,
Down along the wavemark,
Halfway up to the dune edge,
17
Hypnotised outright in an outlandish dogma attack.
He moved along slug-like in mid-sleep,
One would say in a surreal dance,
Dribbling unashamed onto the carpet of sand.
And there, in a mist,
Still in the music of Rome,
Our extrapolous pimp saw a shack on the beach.

A light did flicker through its beams,
Its wooden windows looked tight and abandoned,
This derelict masterpiece toward which he was lead?
Oh but he could have been chasing his own tail,
In that dreamy sleepwalk.
Inviting it did look,
And it smelled like fresh jam,
Smoked by years of salt punishment,
But entrenched it stood brazen.

Corpulent, attractive,
Scared and pardoned from years in kidney cells,
And mitochondrial wine rooms,
`Because they get paid for it?
Thought the Lichen Bard Barrel.
I hear squeaking,
In the plebiscite chambers of my sardonic mind,
Lassitude and sudorific laughter,
WAW!
He thought of the times that he doubted himself,
Traveling quarantinesque in the lonely clouds,
Gaping jelly-mouthed at the American plateaus,
Serenading in true rasperous voice,
The schizophrenic omnipotence of desert creatures.
From the broken lips of nomadic mysteryons,
Johnny Tango came rawskinned,
With his devilish brand of Latino rumba.
He was sipping folk-style strawberry yolk,
Destined for the subcontinent,
Starved silly to his buckteeth,
Swinging golf clubs and watching dangerous images,
Cable will ease our woes,
Coca-cola will save all our souls,
The gumboot chillin will hold us to our toes.
The end is near I feel for the fusion of zygotes,
Nucleic cloisters are winning bread-bottles all around,
I feel a strange harmony on my shoulder,
18
Is it best to turn around or point my features straight,
keep the netherworld conical,
Itll serve me well,
Nuance to Alexander.
He wanted to grasp that rambeast,
Of a kaleidoscope of a shack,
Marinating all the blue shells,
From the oceans and sand pickles,
`I will make sense of it in the morning.

Glowing like a candle,
Broadshouldered like a Roman scandal,
Escaped to the nether reaches of a sun-lit lair.
Pausing there for a moment,
In the harbour of his mind,
Breaking all the pantheons of his pernicious skull,
Gluing together fragments of his daytrips thus far,
Like a patchwork of roadsigns,
Sprinkled feverishly onto his palm.
The ghostly, wooden,
Broken-down shelter in his path,
Like a beacon, side-stepping him altogether,
And parading like theatre-goers.
Liid, by the full moon,
All ablaze in the warm sand,
With an ice-cube flutter from the sea of his birth,
Rambling along on the spoons of the wind,
All those pans,
And the batter that encoated his spawning brain.
Staccatic doubts and guelfs of weeping,
In the sanguine white sky,
Where balloon clouds were waltzing,
Swirling tropical feelings,
Through the fleshy slug on the earth.
It was like the emptiness he felt,
Like a paradox,
Ineffable,
Routing joyously through the snow,
Like in the old days.
He loved that freedom,
Existing in a different sphere,
Staggering `round the hills for eternity,
Happy to be alive.
We live in pain, we love in pain,
With dots of bliss along the way,
19
Corrosive in their appetite,
Belonging to nomadic Semites,
Longing crisply.
Bothering all the time,
Being bothered incessantly,
Glittering like slime in the moonlight.

And there it stood before his eyes,
In the cradling arms of the nighttime sky,
With rusted nails swung from it synchronised,
Eating wood with the fervor of ants,
To the forests delight.
Liid took the hinges off the door,
And swung it open,
Dropped to the floor.
The spitless candles on the woodlime shelves,
They flickered, gasping,
Twitching in the disturbed smoky air.
He stood his body off the ground,
And closed the door without a sound,
Like woodneck in a forest bar,
Espoused in the clatter of space and of time.

Lampond Liid took a momento,
To scour the mysterious space,
In which he found himself.
A door and a window,
Onto the beachside outfront,
A chair and a table by the Seraphim moon,
Shelves with lights on their wicks,
Inventions of the human condition,
Directed for purpose and sweet passing of time.
The grey brooding ceiling,
Encoded with pleasantries,
Undeniably comforting,
Possessing a vapour poignant and reflexive,
Hovering overhead like a dune-buggy,
With its spinning-glass wheels,
And a petroleum leak from its weatherboard pipes.
Liid saw in it the cruelty of the world,
In which he lived,
Strewn kidney stones,
And the laughter of spring onions,
As they giggle at their own venal destinies.
Sephardic compass-riddles,
20
The battle of two nations,
Scattered blamelessly afar,
Into a post-magnolium beer stain.
Magniloquent bravado he could feel,
Welling up within him,
Pink eye!
The humming of barbarians,
From deep beyond the swills,
And outcast hordes of Germanic conquests.
They kept those Romans occupied,
For a few campaigns,
Unified under Darius,
Blasphemous rumblings of Christendom,
Could be spotted,
In the wet lands of Constantines future palace.
They were playing Roman songs,
In his digestive cavity,
Pitting themselves eagerly `round,
Splintering throughout his esophagus,
Dying to get out.
Out into the world from which they were conceived,
Hissing at the prospect of being heard.
Barbarian tides I sense for you slug,
Be a savage to the tetrapods,
Ungulates you will ride.

Cross-examining the halva furniture,
Within the rot-stricken hut,
Walking alongside shadows of beautiful women,
With his shirt flung out,
Standing on the verge of a great journey,
Into the world of his dreams,
Comic books, histamine injections, map-educated
crows, vitamin dined babies, sandpaper cars, Stafford shire
smiles, Brooklyn Mardi Gras, New Years Eve milkshake,
keyboard holiday, trip to Nauru to wash some money, squeezing
frowns, throwing electrolux beams into cloth fires, sending
tadpoles via express, drugs and pastries, haircuts for free, telling
jokes to the sun, L.A sweet haze, broken bottles, teflon
hamburgers, naughty clowns, codfish sarsaparilla, turquoise
paper-cut, salamander blues, steamboat hurricane, folding love
letters at night, brightly feathered bullets, guns with insurance
contracts, milkmen on my mind, dancing girls in my cherry
soup, group discussions on patent anomalies, breathing sweetly
on the rails, Santa Cruz pesto, Morro Bay boatshow, Inglewood
21
poopfest, Dallas broadbent, Mesa endurance, Sierra de Juarez
cactus dance, Hawaii hoopla, San Angelo goulash, Lubbock
Tarzan, Rapid City seismograph, Amarillo stones, flying
crayfish, lab-rat revolution, doing the rumba with soul, cleaning
out ears like a dream, black tirade, seven sausages fighting to the
death, rhubarb stained life swallowed, evolving wings,
straightening addictions, escaping fruitfully, a home for a fly,
swamp renegade, sizzle the brain cells, coughing up battery
chickens, stale bread nightmares, insomniac flare-ups, breast
implant showcase, strapsuit novocaine, viagra for the trees,
walking alone, Kazakhstan salt rations, Uzbek prayer lunch,
feelin good despite the by-pass, monetary incentive, Hong
Kong drizzle at the shore leave, Singapore has my bowels,
infectious ideas gladly shared, customer parking spot, overload
diameter, cartoon candywrap, bruised egos non-existent,
importunate slugs, going down low, indecisive Armageddon,
cue ball #6, forever aligned to Sagittarius, Octavius son,
Cesarean, Egyptian mudcake, gumbo for breakfast, New Orleans
is the city of sulphur, Jacksonville daffodil, brown in the
marrow, floating peas, asking genteel, gravity equinox, polymer
diet pill, bio-foam disaster, designer tastebuds, scaring children,
thrill-seek lemonite, forwarding cell phones, unraveling
genomes, biotech brouhaha, barium crisps, diabetes plasticine,
gravel in my mouth, dentist fevergas, post career adventure,
Alaskan troppo madness, killing all the sweet corn, branching
like salmon, Solomons good wife, peeling black bear
manifesto, straggling the equator, formicating blunders, tassel
gladex, Dr. Spinchild, Mr. Caviarknee, Ms. Rowboat, Mrs.
Destiny, strudel pulp calendar, vicious coins, sultry loins, hung
up in the spring-time breeze, pleasure derelict, New York is
loved, spandex pillow fight, aerobics by the moon, fat turkey
entre`e, Ken-Do soup, lemongrass breadcrumbs, communal
soap, warm at the showers, depression in the mens, the 30s was
a time for shame, skinny in those pants, dressed insane, first date
bonanza, true love gall stones, Trans-Tasman heartbreak, falling
apart, gluing ant pieces, worthless yet priceless inside Herr
Lampond.

The devil may care what is on the minds of slugs,
But he already knows, no doubt.
Consumed with the chorus of reindeer on Jasper Plain,
Liid sat his watery butt on the chair by the table,
By the window by barbarian howls,
Trembling ergonomically.
Dei ar kuming he thought,
22
And he knew it all the same,
Sitting partridge in the mysterious glow of the hut.
They could see him through the wwwindow,
All fickle and goggle-eyed.
They were great warriors,
Carving the essence of our lives,
Into the blustering sea.
But Lampond was just a drunken nomad,
Bloodied through the cosmic joyride,
Scampering forth into a sweetslide,
Mesmerizing letterheads with just his tongue.

They pounded on the crashing waves,
Their Nordic helms unapologetic,
To the dichotomy of pepper,
Grandly stomping on the edges of the void,
Gladly being reminded that all is written.
With ancient lichen,
On the hulls of their slaughtering ships,
Chattering amongst their fungi selves,
Of jolly days by cantering jugglers,
Oh how they loved those flying circusmen,
Breaking water with their fleshy foreheads,
tender smiles in this barbaric world
are hard to find..,
They used to say.

Liids furry cochlea was twitching like mad,
Crazy monkeys on his ossicles,
Jumping Carnivale-like into oblivion,
Spilt numericals rendered obsolete,
Goosebumbs on his chin.
With feather pen in his slushy hand,
And paper coughed-up from the fox coat,
On the hanging wall,
Lampond Liid felt powerful in his wet torso, truly.
Honestly saved, bastardly convinced,
Utterly unforlon.

Unpopular fireflies, candlebugs,
Sootmoths and cornerbats,
All began to hum around the smoking toadstool.
The interior felt alive,
Clarinets (black and tarhoneyed),
Melted down the walls,
23
And grassy wooden ornaments.
The night was ablaze,
Hot with life and creamsounds,
Delecting surmises,
Preferring to be rattlesnake,
Joining in the clapping and egostereophones,
The pebbles and seaweed,
Thought their Day of Judgment was upon them,
And it was, silently approaching,
Yet screaming into the ears of all men,
And slugs alike.
Breaking them senselessly,
Into a million unfathomable pieces,
Tormented childhoods,
Storybook fantasies,
Get out before you can,
Or the sea will swallow you whole,
And what a warm mouth it is,
With its sparkling teeth and mellifluous treats,
Scrapping a living out of the dust,
If I must,
But fashionably Ill do it,
Sending copious winks to friendly police officers.

And now it stirred and calmed the night,
With broken lips and glint in eye,
Liid brokered forth, gripped pencil tight,
And cowered face into the sky.
I vil dip mai pen into mai brain,
And write unt tale fo future dais,
Mai will iz strong like oxen heart,
Farewell mai friends, I may come back.




24

My Cracked Hi p
(an expl orat i on of t he human
anat omy t hrough t he st reet s of
Morocco)






















25
Smacked up against the sky,
Brainwashed, dissipated,
Coloured backwards and fretboarded,
Aluminum mexicolumn,
And the smell of crackling bones,
Strewn like bones in a bone zoo,
Hitting them lightly with my pelvis,
Aching for that melancholy bone giggle.
I was spat out with a million other bland toads,
Onto this figurine landscape, carpmetaled,
Boiling in my box jaw.
Breakfast at the Morocco Shinetwice,
Fes appletart for my breakfast entre,
Whistling into the apelike ears of the locals,
They know me only for my moneyeyes.
Rubies dangling from their nosehairs,
Making eyes at my kneeknuckles.
Friendly are the ham-eaters in these parts,
Goat thighs they would offer me in the Safi market,
Tasting small, grit flavoured,
Dancing on my tongue with En Nil 20 wives,
Boring in the sweet caf.
The subterranean Casablanca moon,
Kept me up all night,
I took my femur clicks into the bars and tonsil sights,
Dressed for a lap dance, Tarabulus affair.
Blinking propeller-like at the shadow babes,
Flushed them out with stories of my fifth cataract,
Surgery in exotic heat,
Meat being stitched, candy-wrapped edema,
Packing elbows by the joules,
Bashing Jews with my Broadbean Club darts,
Festering away.
The Atlas night was kind to my ulna dysfunction,
Rabidly addled in the Saharan humidity,
My bones were creaking four-fold, adieu.
At the port of Ifni that sand-baked clavicle of mine,
Was whispering all the bone-dry abrasives,
It could muster to those port dwellers.
With a sternum choking spasm,
And a tickle of my sartorius,
Tripping onways and into the Islas Canarias,
Standing on La Palma,
Gazing into the Madeira Straits,
Feeling border aroused by the vibrantis,
26
Of my synovial fluid.
I remembered, there on the shore,
Regretfully abandoning my swelling voicebox,
To the hungry pack of neophytes at Oujda,
Tossing away all of my throat wool,
Stunning egg shells with my Togo barn dance.
Sickeningly, I plunged into that maize people,
Black overgrown men,
With black grownover sandwich-type beards,
And black mustached women,
Sprouting alfalfa from their bosom plates,
Ochre tea and the odour of cocoa synergy,
Pouring castor grains down my percolating scapula.
Some troglodyte mules took us to Kenitra,
Their ilium thrusts tickling my ischium,
Palpitating the mangrove bora grubs,
Hiding in my pocket,
Massaging their coelom hind quarters,
With a gentle metacarpal fansweep.
Dialing up horrors we were,
Standing alone by the sea,
Remembering the past,
Being tugged into a teacup.
The salty wind whizzed inside my bone nose,
Pushing my rusted calcaneum into Rabat,
A rusty metal town,
Overflowing hundreds of steel,
Beautiful in the metal dust,
Spawning prisms in her watery tarsals.
Stiff in the morning like a woodboat,
I hunted sturgeon with my boner rod at Bu Craa,
Steel was their skin and the peeling of their rainbow
scales kept me busy for two months.
The river Semara was my milk bag in that time,
I washed all of my shins in her warm ovaries,
They loved that hairless wash,
Being shaved with Hierro cream.
Way before their time,
I met carpologists,
Springing out of deciduous decibells,
Bigoted into braindeath,
Splicing rib ribbons from their Cossack mandibles.
Pig genes imported from Burkina Faso,
Needed salt, sprinkle of gin,
I waited for the boat to take me into those pork reefs.
27
The shipmates were encrusted with turbans,
And prawn smells,
Leaking jewels from their jugular tubes,
Goiters polished,
Sparkling like lapis in the green shimmer of the sea.
The spines of seasickeners,
Were hanging from the hull,
Strung to the deck in vertebrae ensemble,
Rattling pure and bonefied in the still Tenerife air.
I remember my bacon heart thudding ceaselessly,
Caring only for the onion bits,
As I planted my slate of a foot onto Gomera,
Waiting for the quicksand to take effect.
Cackling were the chimpanzees,
Toilet trained and hairy browed,
Beating wheat to a pulp, ashplant.
I swam,
Leaving them behind,
Immersed in the seaweed to my flapping ears,
Getting water in my cornea,
Rolling like an alligator in the green weed of the sea,
Catching my bubble breath every so often.
I lay afloat on my turtle back,
Looking back through the water forest,
At those bitch apes,
Washed away and away,
Snuggly in my bones,
I would live here awhile.
















28
Once i n Wal l ace





















29
An ankle throbbed, pumpus inside it,
Circulating some vile energy within its cartly walls.
Some gross mysteries curled themselves in cosy bundles beside
the discoloured heel.
Rendezvous with spew tonic and raw food will cure the hurting
malady.

In Coles, on the corner Las Cacarella,
His fervent mind-muscles flexing and holding dryly to Sonoras
minty after-dinner fingers.
She thought they were lovebirds,
But Cole had the mind to fly in winter;
Bahama Broulee`,
Honduras huglolly.
All this time he was watching those SexVs,
Cascading Bronx-flurry in and out of the CO cloud.

On that overshadowed day,
Cole went to the Seahorse Pier all by himself.
Sitting, hanging by the wisp waters edge,
He became entrapped for hours by the fluid images and
transcendal light-flakes,
Bouncing and foaming into saline prisms,
Crashing round their wooden legs.

One time, he saw Grim Reapers in those Shallow depths;
Dykerlydead pawns bishoping non-lives on the waves
cylindrical humps.
Buttered with greasy spools for the fish,
Eating their tails below.
Coffee spilling in all directions towards the bromide sun,
Mercury slick out in the open sea.
How Cole so desperately longed to live underneath the water,
Living in slow motion,
Hiding in the burlesque sand,
Unbeknown to the speed of waves above.
Just sitting in the adobo kitchen,
Be-bopping with his pen on the paper-white ivories.
Sugar infestation, care-free railrow beating in the dark of night,
Somewhere in the real world.

Coles ears, always pressurised,
Having grand adventures in his dream bubble.
On weekends he loved to go fossicking for `ah chess,
ehboiled shank pieces,
30
Dreamy shale stones.
He always fantasised about the fucking bottom sea;
It was his home sweet homily.
For a short while the stirlessness was good for his aching brain-
bones, but then,
As with all roaming the Caribbean skinless,
Goldenbrown, Cole got bored.
Bored blind.

In the meantime, dark yellow spots were gathering opium dots,
As she imagined through her giant gurgle-glass window.
Woolen bass-lines tapping on the frame;
Pullpoultry coolstained and the great darkening sky just looming
to thrust all that water into her tender fragile bellybassoon.
Hmm, it just hung there,
Waiting for her to tap some thistle,
Just brewing.

Lindy felt something move through the tepid room,
An ether swimming around in the dark space,
The universe whispering to something in her soul,
Urging some dreams to be dreamt,
`Only in your blindness girl.
Your eyes are fools. Dont see.

Lindy lived on the mountain range.
She flew kites to catch sounds from between raindrops.
They always squeaked at first, then settled,
Then simmered in silence,
Enjoying the death throes.
She was fascinated out of her mind by these delicious squeaks,
High pitched at low frequencies,
Bordering on packets being unwrapped of their cellophane,
Cellesting brune,
Soaking soreness in a warm bath.

The autumn time in those hills was magic.
The late afternoons were laced with the smells of snowdrifts,
The sore onset of cold,
The air just crispy,
Pleasing to her cheekskin.
The whole winter she spent in caves cooking water in between
her toenails,
Lapping it up in small kitten mouthfuls,
Petite like the water crystals forming down her shivering lashes.
31
When the springtime arrived,
Lindy cast down her scaly skin by mating horns and peektrees
inside the lower altitudes.
The best was always when the sunshine burst onto her skull
unexpectedly,
Splattering upon her welcome face its solar onion juice.
However, when the summer came swaggering about with its
lazy step by step,
Ensaddled and a pony ride-me-slow hanging from its dusty bags,
Lindy felt bored of it all,
Swimming in bore.
So,
She decided to go down to where the brittle earth,
Meets the slimy sea.

The phone rang, louder than usual,
And this time with a pang of zeal,
Rushing through its fiber optic nerves.
Shes dead Sid. Im sorry. The news didnt shock
him, he accepted it unmoved; and after a short while, to his
slight surprise, the fact became joyous. Yes, Sid was happy for
her death. `What a wonderful thing it must be, he mulled, `to
finally escape this sad duality; to bathe in lasting oneness with
all those stars and dying planets. I so long to dissolve.
And there he stayed, in Vishnu land,
Suspended in sugar water,
Floundering in some strange chaos.

Scribbling names in Japanese, so exhausted so as to bottle lard
and mail the express vial beehive armada.
Their foolscap rhododendron,
Facetious in her bloodwell giggle,
The Corona Redbacks slamming bodies to the pitch with horses
pounding the turf,
Galloping for the ball.
Internet Prince was watching from the middle stand,
Up in the barrage, coughing into chips and peanuts,
Hotdogs sprinkled with mustard powder and glazed with garlic
goodness.
He thought it awful to see those blooded-up boys,
Scourge of young bodies;
Strength in numbers soon dies down without some whip to keep
it whipped, fluffy.
`Theyre gonna be back soon, and I dont want to have the
embarrassment of explaining my nakedness.
32
Anguished and tired, he desperately tried to will away
Petronella, but he knew it was useless.
`It must wash itself away, nothing to do with me.

On butterfly wings well build the greatest living creature ever!!
Stick it round the tunnel and watch the whole thing sparkle.
Woe to ebony, my sunset,
The sugar in my breakfast,
My hot shower,
My truest sweet dream.

Calming the luddite down,
Miss Tarpauline, suggest she did,
We take our chances with the bookkeepers draws.
Plump, tooth friendly,
Dripping into the spitting pot;
Old Sweeney passed down the paperweight with his tremendous
hairy thumb,
Look boys, the devil got me bit by bit,
And now oranges pressed down the generations,
Golly dont go there.
Stunk the whole room with his purple throne,
To gargle once more in throats phlegmsome sludge.
But now I must rest.

`Not for the love of me.
Go where the jelly dont wobble,
The plywood dont slobber,
And every morning is a fresh delight.

To want just to be,
To ansk all the right papers.
All I want is ice-cream.
To feel that warn donut sweetness crawling into the spindles of
my jamy nut.
To be alone.
To realise.
To spot that which no-one else spots.
To be amazing,
Satisfied.
Full of chocolate.

They say it is good to hug ones dad,
It makes good television.
It makes good fluids run between the two bodies,
33
Percolating innuendo,
The mixing of auras occurs.
Goodness Gracias,
Tourette tulipan tired and tenacious gravel rash.
So sad to break things apart,
So sickeningly unbearable to build them up again.
So, one must build and destroy.
Sleep for long periods and awaken lazily,
Then canter briskly along ones way,
And drop down to the earth at the end of the day.
And when the hour of darkness falls,
In true timing with almost certainty,
The land of lullabies will come to the fore,
The messengers of shadow are visible at this point,
And only with true dissolution can one be with them,
And partake,
Free of time,
In their infinite playfulness.

Cole listened with great aptitude to this underwater
sermon. The things around him had lost their sparkle, he no
longer regarded them with a sense of awe. He could no further
stand the stupidity of his own race. Cole preferred the company
of that which was deaf and dumb and utterly unintelligible, for
there he found some kind of reflectivity, a sort of silent tension.
The bowels of the soundscape all around him were chiming
sublime an essential freedom towards which he was pulled.

`Who in Gods green underwear?
The muddiness cleared after a brief scuttle, and there, on his
broccoli rock, stood pompous Len, a nutty scarab; beetle from
the shallows, where the coral is warm and the mile dont travel.

`Now lets see, the capital of California is Sacramento;
the capital of Chicago is Bryersville; the capital of Tulcon is
Watson; the capital of Tony is Sam. Brilliant! Boastful.
Ashamed. Peachy, carved in the mollusconite with his
bootstraps bent over till theyre blue. Saxonian catacomb was
standing on a seaweed polyp, preaching to Cole some didactic
trump. `Go shave your head with lino, and sprinkle pectrels on
your tongue. Then faith returned to his weak little body; and so
Cole set out forth to recapture the land.

Oh boy, be careful the superman,
Beware the bullshell,
34
Climbed from tawdry to shampoodle.
He was always somehow slowed,
His pipes were always clogged.
Same with Lindy,
River-racing from her mountain loft,
Rapid specks getting flicked before her at all the wrong
moments.
The whole thing was, in all its mysterious ways,
Obstructing them in their good work,
Yet bringing them closer together;
Closer and closer.

They both sat down nearly touching,
To cast off a spell into the air,
Assembling all the nature of things around them;
A chant was sent,
Propelled hither and thither,
Before the witness of some awesome gape.

To build ones own mythology, and be the hero:
For her decrepit ways are devoid of all rhythm.
A static island in somes dizzy butterfingers,
To revive his livelihood in a quick way,
Cole put his corrugated toe-poke to the accelerator;
A `73 Hunchback he was driving,
A smooth metal buzz through the streets of Wallace.
Gold almighty he gave to Carl Lotto,
Coles penchant for the poor-hearted,
A latent pip-squeak in each of homeless poors dumb wisdom.

Moving to the reptilian beat
With his far-ass hand waving down Toad Gandolfini;
Upon the sooks face a myriad congestion,
Syncopated like some unruleable amphibian plateau;
The canyon swerving inside his textured broad face.
Loading the green-beef spit onto gangly trucks,
Parked side by celery-side,
A banquet tornado in the tinted street,
Lax with Bohemian atmosphere,
And theres room for all at Fixtons Oldmill Table;
Im going to the Toejam Festival,
West off Woodrow, a little past Ranson,
Dribble down on Paddy.

Sitting beneath her cave-dome,
35
Somewhere deep in the Sierra Tolkein,
Lindy was rubbing her two white feet together,
Trying to get a fire going.
She was the mercurial maiden,
Foremost in her mind the spellbinding affair of some epicurial
sacrifice.
At sunset, the girl would invite hoards of dactyls close to her,
Breaking some taboos while she slept,
And at first light shed set out again,
Flooring rattlesnakes with her scaly gauntlets.

In the Syracuse Caf,
Cole propped himself up against the green tackless of the
armchairs and cushions galore.
Staring down the temptuous with his hawkish pierce,
And peeling away Aunties exit-wounds,
All while the sea outside was thumping,
A little hard for his liking.
It was drowning out the ideas in his head;
One by one hed write them down,
Some more sophisticated than others,
But all along something good to get out of ones carcass.
`How does one become impervious to all hateful emotions?
Cole thought;
A worthwhile undertaking by anyones measure,
No doubt.

The storm that was hovering over the Atlantic polar-zone
was growing in frenzy by the hour, more frenetic from one
minute to the next. Its bulging tempestuous haunches
spilling themselves onto the untropical wetness; disguised
as ohmniotic tentacles, gauging out the wet floor precisely
so the smudge-lines lay debased.

An icy cold deluge,
Portent of doom and awakening,
Desire and loathing,
Suffering and rapture spinning inside it,
Being turned and twisted inside the convection cell.
No-one could see however that behind the downpour,
Directly or otherwise,
The sky reposed illuminated;
Much to its own surprise.
It was stunningly bright and free,
36
A monument unto itself,
Eating its tail,
Yet never lifting the veil for just any man.

Amazing how the TV guide can,
With such fine precision,
Predict what will happen next.
More crude ever still,
How alcohol can bring about such clarity of thought.

Notwithstanding the hitherto hearsay,
Cole rummaged through his knapsack,
All cloth and no yardstick,
Looking for the treasure.
`What happens when prayers are negligible?
When the magic I summon creates more pain than it alleviates.
Cole was searching, I guess,
For some sort of controllability;
A way to table the variable (constant) contents of his future;
A way to bring about his time before his time is brought.
Hed been handed so many demons that hed lost count;
`A way to fight them off against each other he continued.

-Our potent cavewoman,
Her virile bodylanguage expressing the ineluctable tragedy of
her temerous happiness,
Always parading her sexuality as if it was some badge.
Then again,
Too much happiness all at once is bad for ones breath.
At times, she tended to lose all common perspective,
To get caught up in her own talented fantasies.

At the height of noon she reached Novena,
All blistered by the torrid sun,
And weaving in and out of the hot illusion plumes.
Lindy loved to be famous,
Universally recognised,
Known by millions,
Admired and venerated by everybody in her path,
But loved by just one.
Just one of those things that never happens when you want it to;
`Conspiracy to evolve me!
Beside her in the dust there lay a brown snake,
She picked it up and began her chanting Sundance:

37
Hullabaloo hey!
Hullabaloo ho!
May the suns hoi polloi bring me buckets of joy.
Gladness, retirement, an arm and two legs,
The love of a man whom I fear will desert.

Shirksome responsibility began to fly around,
Speaking in tongues to the Binoboa fold,
Screeching up sagacity from the natural laws all around,
Pitched the idea into the still waters of allthings mind.
The unmanifest becoming manifest,
Effortlessly.
Without seam nor needlework,
Then hell be a true love of mine.
A price to pay at every point,
Some value handed out from every momentary pindrop.
Best to turn the cycle in ones favour, immediately.
Gunho, switchblade,
Up and down on marmalade.

Precious lanterns,
Inebriating Lindy from the inside outwards,
Cruising voyeurs in the midday drawl.
Tiny flagella on her wrists and her ankles,
Flapping the girl to Wallace hut;
Inauspicious cuticles branding each step with molten sex-drive,
`Turn away, turn away,
Turn away from Zarafrustra,
She heard the azarias proclaim.

Lindy thought she caught a glimpse of some movie magic,
Down there in the valley,
A small glint,
Inconspicuous to the knuckled eye.
However her pupils perceived it,
There it was in a crisp bandero nutshell

Fully the land of make-believe,
Truth debunked from her stirrup throne.
How can so much progress be instantly, apparently,
Blasted into oblivion:
There must be will to constriction.
How else would Medusa entertain?
And as Lindy made her way down to the lights,
Two dusty balloons went flying above her,
38
Theyd heard her tantrums and seen her good work,
And swayed up to heaven to check her account.
Maybe she was in for a handsome return;
We all create it step by step.

A porous evening cool pushed Lindy into Wallace,
With bestial momentum,
She switched her attention from the corrosive rim,
To corrosions esoteric counsel.
A thousand wafers to and fro,
On every corner,
Her gills gorged with excited tension,
As her dead steps moved her through the muffled markets.

Something about a dead snob,
Some harpists dream concocted haphazardly,
Moaning, in erstwhile fashion,
With earnest gravity.
Coles exuberant tango with the monkeys in his mind,
Gave cadence,
Vicissitudes sans ebb and flow;
A rightful birdsong heard somewhere off,
Far in the distance.
The communication between birds,
Such complex music to the simple ear of man,
Resonating in the chambers of the sea,
Between the cavities in mountains,
Reverberating inside red blood cells,
And the solar plexus,
Through ones hide.
His demons needed to be killed,
And slaughtered,
Put to waste.
They were the only things holding him back.

And her,
The journeys sweet avenging thrust,
In labial goosebumps on her neck.
`The city has such swell about it,
Parochial madness on the tail of a horse.
Across the street, at the Syracuse,
Lindy noticed, she felt a buzzing,
A tugging from within her,
She heard a rumour and went to check that latent beat.
In melancholy trance she stood,
39
And broke the silence with a thought,
`Ambrosial rings now sail before me,
How to proceed with no such gale?
And as she walked in slight aloof,
Without a clue of futures sway,
Her toe stuck hard against a stone,
A lonely cobble in the street,
Just waiting for the way back home.
And then something twitched in the air around them,
Some organs inside Lindys skincage moved a bit,
She sensed discomfort,
Resisted against the flow.
`Oh to hell with Roloid Poli,
Off to the strippers ball with ya!
Delicious Sanskrit round the corner,
Took note and made a slight exchange.
This heavy polak, lesson learnt,
The waters of her mind be stirred.
Not the time yet for the heart of a stone,
Living inside the belly of a whale.


And so she stepped up to the glass,
And looked inside;
Some figures in the dim room,
A lowly hum emitted from it,
And then remembered,
And moved away.
Her seaweed eyes felt warm and tender,
`Maybe now I can discover what lies beneath the slimy waters
edge.
To the ocean bottom!

And in between their thrusts and tumbles,
Cole looked outside his caf pane,
As if hed been touched by some streaming invisible
undercurrent,
And had forgotten to remember.
If only
40



Nut ri sweet























41
He was overcome by sadness,
Wrinkled up isostasy,
And a prayer would catch me up I swear.

Two boiling flux dispirited in their loneliness,
Carrying seasoning in their cold ear flaps,
Nonchalant chestnutrisweet,
And a backslap vibrant,
Trembling, banished to the Arctic Pulse.

The winds were tyrants,
Orca pitying the seals,
And blubber wasted on the ground,
For two days at least we could have slumbered in it,
Till bristle me sunflakes come flatten the earth.

Sighing aliens in the freeze,
Tis best to be than not to be,
They thought their logic random,
And quicksilver in texture,
Running to the edge and then holding back,
Playful with the fear,
Toying with it in the open space,
Overfeeding oneself on dead birds,
Cloaking their stomachs in the afterglow.
After all, the elements are only smells,
Clicking their heels unperturbed by the laments of snow people,
Close to the brink and blinking frenetic,
Deflecting arias with their frozen eyelids,
But to no avail,
Alas, the dreams would never stop.














42

The Fl i ght of Coco



























43
All the strange wafers of the world,
Incandescent, irralloquial and fleeting,
They are.

A lively smell of the living streets,
As I flew overhead,

Drunkard with my own tox,
Ic all beneath my wings,
Tumbling all around in the husky dusk.

I felt bedeviled by the Caribbean Sway,
Carri Oboe in the mud,
Eilo Iroquois for the spies are everywhere,
Beware the stripped shirts,
Artifice on their brawny ankles.

Thank the lovebirds for their song,
Bleed an apple in the caf evening,
Bris-a-hubbard like a lonely fool,
Spin those coattails,
Be the cool.






















44
Sl uggi sh Deat hwi sh





























45
A brigand deathwish is on us all,
Brief the spectrum and a lark pulse the gal.

Winstonshire grotesque memorandum,
Scud oilbaste-a-tisket peel the tan,
Sprite rock-a-tooth centrists splitting a man.

Sluggish boot Tiranicca,
Speaking aromae high and with an attitude,
What must be strictly allegory keroscenic altitude.

Baboon solstice evaporation,
Brutal conefight casket mince,
Bison such a milky prince.































46
The Ri ddl e of Respl endet ude
(An Essay)









47
Everyday life is an illusion behind which lies the
reality of dreams. Why? Because the realm of our passions,
desires and dreams lies in the field of infinite possibilities, the
sphere of pure potentiality, where there is no destruction, only
metamorphosis. Where social, economic and all other obstacles
are non-existent or can be easily overcome, the field of pure
nature, pure spirit. Our minds are the greatest oppressors and
also the greatest liberators, and if we find that still point in
ourselves where the True Self exists, and bring it to the surface,
then fear of death disappears and our lives become free,
emancipated from all oppressive structures. And therein lies the
greatest security, and thus the greatest freedom.
Our modern, materially developed lives have become
so distanced from nature that we have become stupid to the
lessons nature offers. Lessons that are practical and vital. They
help us to break free of our rigidity and teach us to flow
effortlessly through the landscape, to accept the moment as it is
meant to be, and not struggle against it. And most importantly,
to believe in miracles, and the power of our dreams.
The true challenge for the future is the greatest
challenge of the present moment; it is to change ourselves. To
transform ones life from mundane to extraordinary, and inspire,
not convince, others to do the same. However, for great energy
to become manifest requires stillness, and many times our lives
are so devoid of quiet that we often give up on even this small
endeavour. But there is stillness in nature, and thats where the
answers lie.
The most complete security exists in freedom,
therefore we mustnt compromise anything, simply search for
our True Selves.















48
A newborn child is so naked,
Yet clothed in such purity.
So itself, uncompromised.

Seeing those words for the first time, it made him feel
brave, worthwhile. They were bold and striking, fixed starkly in
his prison scrapbook. The walls of New Brunswick Penitentiary
held all of Bucks desires in check, oppressing him,
compromising the very essence of his nature. Guilty of no crime
was he, but nevertheless forced into this strange parody of good
and bad by some twisted manipulation of fate, ineffable to its
cause and effect.
Bucks gentle manner hardened over the years of
imposed exile from the free world. The one that had spat him
out, wrestled him to the ground, and clogged his pores with its
world-view. Now, he only wanted to spit back at it. Radicalised,
demonised, debased.
An ideology was lashing his tattered mindspace with
its insidious tentacles, scrapping up all that black energy from
the pit of his soul. Buck felt he was chosen for something grand,
why else would the universe treat him so unkind. A manifesto
hed compose, a luminous work ahead of its time, hed gather
followers to his cause, and fight back!
Inside that tight, dank cell, stripped bone-bare of all
earthly freedoms, constricted in a straitjacket, Bucks mind was
soaring, elated and basking in a heavenly exultation.
Emancipated, he knew, as he gazed at the pristine sky through
his tiny barred window, that no entity known to mankind could
stop him now, God was on his side.

Dont exceed the limit please driver, as her jet-black
limousine caressed the impervious perimeter of the old
jailhouse. Snugly positioned in the dark leather interior, Senator
Jules Jacky held in her lap the Law of the Land. Dan, get me
Secretary James from the D.O.I on line 4 please, Right away
mam.
The heavy droplets of an early November rainshower
were exploding sluggishly on the tinted bulletproof windscreen.
Outside in the cold forest, a family of sparrows was clinging
onto dear life underneath the freezing downpour, while further
up in the canopy one bird sat fully drenched, yet confident that
hed make it through the deluge.
Jim, have we nailed those S.O.Bs?
49
You see Senator, this is gonna take a while. Not only
are these bastards more organised than we first thought, theyre
battling for their tawdry souls.
I dont care, I want to see full cavity searches of
everyone who enters the premises, a shoot to kill curfew
enforced over a 10 mile radius, choppers search-lighting the
entire neighbourhood, background checks, family histories,
psycho-analysis, movement projections, gender stats, DNA
profiles, diet reports, everything! Is that clear?!
The problem is, were all fighting the good fight.
What?
At that moment, amidst the feisty tones, quite despite
their fierce melody, a lonely turtle began to cross the road,
pushed by the meddling wind right into their livid path, straight
beneath the limos muddy tires. And sliding, slammed into a
tree, wrapped till the ghosts were squeezed from their bodies, all
because of a squashed turtle.

And so it trickled through their fingers,
And sank down deep into the ground,
`I thought that wed be safe in numbers,
In a box, with guardians all around.
But NO!
Twas a false security rendered ubiquitous
By the sheer appearance of size.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall,
How fragile at times the giants stand tall.

The giant sequoias, looking over the land as far as
their wooden eyes could carry them, over towards the
Hindukush, the Taurus Range, and the Mesopotamian swamps,
were whispering something into the burly strata of their brittle
skins. They knew all the secrets of mans infinite take-this-and-
that. They knew that security is an illusion born out of the desire
for certainty, imprisoning all those who seek it, for it never
comes. `Be free to roam the plateaus, to flow effortlessly like the
morning dew beds. An interior rhythm lies within all things that
cannot be contained or squandered easily; there is no
destruction, only transformation. When our minds are in sync
with this bodily beat, then well all be safe.

He couldnt understand it, every time the pages turned,
they turned his world into a nuthouse, disturbing some ethereal
equilibrium deep inside the fibers of his gut cavity, poking his
innards with a sharp stick, leaving him desiccated and
50
disheveled. Those photos just had some kind of power behind
them, the power of the entire universe, its inertia crushing all
those in its path.
Robert Terry was a wealthy young man, free as a bird,
living softly on cushioned acres of open sky, yet struggling
horrendously against the dinosaurs and other evolutionary
oddities. Hed take his unruly dogs for a walk in the nearby
forest each afternoon, feeling the sweet resilience of springs
ephemeral harmony on his cheeks and in his lungs, wishing he
could be like that. But his body was ravaged by dark matter, an
incessant pang crippling him from the inside out, squeezing him
from end to end, biting on his all fours like one of his dogs. This
prison had no walls, it was everywhere, the only place he could
escape it was in dream. There the parameters were fluid,
inconsequential, full of everything he ever desired, begging him
to fall through. But the past has a way of pulling you in, its
structures and dogmas are erected all around, tempting us to fail,
over and over. `True freedom is to feel free from all oppressive
emotions, Robert thought in his quiet moments, `But I am so
afraid.

So frayed by endless nerves, on probation in the
fortified buttress of her soul, she watched the daily squabbles
between flowers and weeds in her jungle garden. Carlotta knew
this ritual too well, the evocation of ancestral spirits to help in
the struggle for hegemony. Encroachment upon foreign soil,
Bougainvilleas versus their Hyacinth nemesis, for all the wrongs
of karma past. A question of fertiliser really, a hilltop space
where the sun is brightest, looking over the hordes of rabid
Lilacs, readying for the next battle. The rich ground pulsating
with organic treasure, a fount of jewels, worth the devil for?
Worth all the blood in the world for an idea. She could move the
world with her ideas, watering the pugnacious plants with a new
food she developed called Carlottas Way. She had to ween
them off their imperious antiquities, those learned behaviours
had to be unlearned and chosen afresh according to Karmic
doctrine. What goes around, comes around, and goes around
again.

Q: Why cant we all just live together, in freedom,
being safe? (Understanding what makes us tick and then tuning
the clock to run on time).

A: `The security of our interests is at stake here! We
must lunge forward before we are lunged at!
51

All those national, personal, strategic, monetary,
economic, social interests, a quest for security by insecure
people= how rude. But there is a way out. To find oneself
amidst the noise and disorder of opposites and be true to the
one-point. To be fluid in a rigid landscape. If only dogs could
understand the buzzing of flies, and those flies understand the
barking of dogs, then bones would be much less in contention.
Do you think thered be wars if people were happy? The
problem cannot be addressed collectively because the solution
lies in change at the personal level. The task is not to free the
world by winning them over to ones point of view, but to free the
human from the tyranny of past-conditioning. Real security is
trusting the power of knowing the True Self to manifest the
unmanifest future of our dreams. All else is falsehood, deceit,
and deflection.

Pray dont be distracted by the lies of the world.
Love yourself and you shall covet naught but that which is in
your heart, and the heart is not a stone. They all listened
carefully to Father Wells sweet homily, and then went their
separate ways. Off to the chippery, down by the butchers, a
fiasco in the business district. Tom couldnt find his locker key,
let alone the key to his inner sanctum. Each night he sat by the
TV, scratching his arse, trying to figure out precisely where his
Self had left him for dead. Was it hiding in the music channel, or
in the fridge? No, maybe it was still alive at the bottom of his
Guinness swill, back in town at the McCoy Pub. He went
looking for it in the streets of Doveton, but all Tom found was
an alarming lack of serenity and introspection. `Always looking
to the past we are, he pondered, `for that is the only covered
ground, thats where the facts lie. So inbred are our pessimisms
that, Lord Almighty, its a breath of fresh air to get a dollop of
faith every now and again.
And then, as if struck by a warm metal rod, a gulf of
clarity swept Tom away. At once, things seemed so
uncomplicated, so brilliant, and he realised how simple it is to
be happy. Free of the shackles that had bound him before, he felt
concentrated, revived, breathed into by some massive Lifeforce,
reborn. All that he knew was that hed found his dreams, and
thats all he needed to know. He felt safe, not afraid to die, just
dying to live. The world became small as a pinch of hot gas, and
the people upon it like toys in a sandpit, playing their games and
digging their holes, till their mothers sweep low and take them
away.
52

And so, you see class, all that it takes is to get back to
basics. Explore that central ecosystem that lays submerged
below layers of silt.
But sir, how much do we have to give up?
Nothing! Only gain. Feeling secure in the freedom of
being uncompromised. One equals the other. Its the only way,
its essential. Thats how we create infinite potential and open
our minds to endless possibilities. No point in putting up a fence
there, hey boys?
But what if something happens down there?
Were all going to die lads, its the only sure thing.
Anyway, we have no time to loose, quick put on your masks.
One, two, three(and they all jumped forth into destinys
gape)seek out the True Self, now!





























53
God s Boredom





























54
`To my Godigloo

Went Paws letter drycleaning with her inhospitable granny
ache,
Bending seasons round the homely page.

`To the Gabs above,
Say something,
Be brutal for once you fuckers!
You want my madness? Hey, I want it,
Are you there in the eternal joy of becoming?

The badminton blamed salads for the last time when comes of
boysjaw retinalds are there.
Soliloquize,
Brentwood salespaper ~ there youll find it ~
In harmonies, blasted bricks and shattered sticks,
Making a fire out her slain courage.

`I once was penurys proud uncle,
But arse knows pernickety well how dwells beneath the
succulent jangle of brewerys handsonyourMickael.
To lease to oddballs my satin crink,
Felt oddly caustic in the straight predicate espoused coolrice
beaten jellywobble with pure knuckles.

Aint it a jaundice running lateforthetrain,
Hands gripped warmly `pon her sopping salesman.

Its a cast-off skin! it would cry,
Breakloose in the gorged fog,
Something must have attached itself to my dreams in that wheel
of a mist, a redemption, omen,
Die or Die,
I thank that beautiful bitch for it,
Foreskin, for everything,
For both the bob upstairs.

Creternity basin whilst scrapping tunes in the barrel,
Off to the brownpaper with ya,
A rope in the sack with `standbyme blaring good bleedmedry
down all the interested walls.

Down by Stockdale & Legging & Letgo & the passengers
thinkin theyd be drivers.
55
Hoolay bounced kapusta `n noga,
Brittering pikelets scarefest inordinary confections aloofs
affection sometimes for metal andardent sighsiphon in the grrr
of confusion.

Its all they have for you write now, SORRY!!

Bananagram lifebeam, smile the balustrade away,
Like soque Jahriffic cornered smokey bison in the vast exterior
of Weeping Clouds jorrow.

Beneath the goad waters of the amythist lake,
The sugar cubes, meddling inconsequential brief-atteite,
Their hoary fingers crumbling with delight at expeditions
hatched at the breaking of coconuts wind.
Planning unplans in the cuddlesome rain,
When all bucksraskin introverted and lay me low came sunshine
through the blinding spectacle.

Ive lived a life beyond my dreams.
And now to die in dreams morose lustiny.
Such cuntsome happiness in which I must repose.

Brachium Regale maestro,
My pal pitating in the Hussite foaming gluttitude,
Horrible, absolute enmity,
Bye swimming to the Pacific rim,
Lasting torture from minds needleye
Apoo.

Its not my choice, Im being sent there.
`By whom?
A very wise formless spiritual essence.

Its going to drive me crazy.

With Marks embroyos III patched whittle,
Underneath my coarse pit,
The blinking cotomy, ethics colleagues,
Randy bubble, sexy stubble,
Stabbing the gore, thrashing from our sucked inheritance.
Barbequa the lackey one leg doors from rowdogs,
Easy on the frontmilk,
Clairvoyance source still boiling nettles and frogs legs,
Stooping vapid over the cauldron,
56
Wailing to loves bitter glow.

If only someone would devise a patent to shorten peoples lives.
Thats it !!!
Ill go and punch that soggy pimple.

I walked through cities naked Russel,
Enunciating my proverbs in verbositous glory,
A clarity streaked mac portal of her spiny tall.
Its easy that way.
Bored bubblegum extinct Samanthal methodwimp down those
licksome curves,
Ah Chmielnik, our Ruthene Salvador,
Pardon to you for stunk the Jews.

`Woe, woe, woe tat turtle bluskin,
Perkbone good cure for my sensitive teeth.

Precisely what I thought,
Bird arrows flying south in spank season,
Getting caught in the bodyjar cul-de-sac,
A poop budlet let bud pop tell dub ule tud pob ldu et,
Sacrosanct incoffeelence,
Turd anger and give-us if I know what happens next.

Once there lived a little boy who believed that everyday life was
an illusion behind which lies the reality of dreams.

I am nothing but a dream, hed fumble,
My world is death at every point, I want it all the time.
I seek it in life.

To be a niglet do I seek?
It is all dead, without life,
Decrepit, rancid, bloom in the desert,
Soldier antacid borelemon swatch daschle parking satellite
insignio, all flavoured with some rancid stench.

Will this be another broken promise?
I will break my head open,
Piecemeal in the old luster of blue salute sesame,
Gibberish splatgobble, wars everywhere,
I may have done this one,
It was willed upon me, said the somber cauliflower in her sunset
girdle.
57

You are.A GENIUS!
Thats what he always wanted,
To be called that, but noto actually be.
Sizzling brains in Lances giblet pot.

In the beginning, Mongroils apart yet further together than the
great carpet chasm that desperated infolio tourist season,
With neon marked for press release.

Difficult to hear all laughter underneath the bastard ground.
`Ah my morning nosepicking session.

Underneath his moist snot, the scarpeddle tickletissue was
burning some hairmbers in her nosestove. Her filled with people
all talking in puzzle just soapie in Satans just needing to take
this in some direction. Laying low for the moment, sleeping by
his gopher drill, and pills for sleeping deeply, just to lay me low
for some little time. I think me gonna take some drugs when the
serpents howl and the winds change just not for me. What are
they doing here? asking cacklery in a shipwrecked swiff. I
dont know, he replied to himself, but its going to be
something EXTRAORDINARY.

Big darn,
Coil up my scrumptious legs, in repose,
Sun-dried ola` cockroach.
Suppose I dont manage it,
Glory be to the Lord-of-Craft!!!
Inside my belly, instant gruff,
Millions lost to be put to air one more time?

Greenwich constantly evaporating through cheese and roar of
bestial whiz,
Slow squeak buffeted incresciendo pork-silly,
`Oh my God with girlie runners squared portright,
Rust stupid balls faecal tarmac,
Oceanscape to be loved, to be cared for by a big lumpy hippy.
Mixing salva with Japanese toadstools,
Lipstick sausage meat and a tingle down my brawny spine.
Swift flake to the orange coolweather,
A seeping fleet rests, getting annoyed at the dumbness of rolling
foam bleet,
Wiser in stupids celebrity sparkle.

58
Finality in my famous erectors,
Coming till home comes thru the throw-up.
More angry garbage jelly wobbling funny somertimies with
roaring tits,
Stealing pepper,
Boil platt cranium mandragora Popsicle,
While all the beasts in this saline woll,
All sticking.

The gale ambulation with her stony look-alike ceiling problems
inasmuch as our humanity bogboggle where my soul be itching
with bee-bites.

I say, whenever God decides to take away my soul from this dry
sickly body, then morbid so let it be to shine upon spineless
spendricles encased, souped within, break free into the land
from which only ghosts return.

With my two fracked up legs, going honeymad up a mull dome
to Pils Henryk, where the Suta pommel beads with Rock
Caterwauler.
That supplant oceanspray whilst drive-down to Bluey with my
Malibu mungbean still throbbing from her Mullholland
kneescrape.
Cookie failed to bronze his balls!! we shouted,
Out to where they hear from tuna-leaf and furrow,
Albeit rattlesnakes costume wouldnt flinch.

They say I want to eat all the sugar in this fucking world and
then die a sweet death.
I guess its true with the smell of true love justa drooping in airs
round opal.

A poignant crumb, just waiting for his miracle,
Scattered, debased,
Birdwatching the wars between squirrels and crows.








59
The Ragl and Sol i l oqui es































60
Frightened in his hessnut helmet,
That cabtaxidriverAlan of our friend Frankie pumpkintooth,
Drove us deep into the farmside night,
Delicious.
Speeding in the black ogre,
Chattering empty the marimba cobblerocks by the wayside overroad.
We loved to see their stooged pistachio nutlets,
Fleshy acorns of every kind, in soup, on their own, roasted,
Cooked, put separated as bookmarks,
Dotting the clear night.
Maggie Macadamia, Cathy Cashew, Albert Almond,
Mortimer Mainstay, Persival W. Peanut, Oslo Stiffnookie,
All nuts, going too fast in a rac.
The back seat was filled with good full atmosphere,
Envisioned and imaginesque,
I darted my pearl drop eyesockets out the window,
And fell into the bayonet lickfinger picture.

A radio was playing from somewhere beneath my chest hairs,
Annoying my browridge, spooking me out,
Buzzing harmonies with ultra-filtered blood clots,
Rummaging and ransacking through my veins.
The wetblades were slapping my ankles,
Slipping wetbeavers into my grassfilled shoes,
Chaffing them.
A bowler phone in the innards of my cranktank,
I was steeplechased into frostboats,
Gallant and frozen.

Oh, if only the world were my Jerry,
I moaned lipidously and coitered,
Saw the coolcave `neath me feet,
Broken over with my convex Stutgrass,
Peered within it,
Perplexed.
Ooloo, ooloo, ooloo!?!? I jeered,
Have my crabeyes arisen yet?
They were coming,
I could feel them pinching up my pickled spine,
A bold oracle like each of us,
Glowbulbs in the Ragland cave.

Bah, sissies! he called into the maple earth orifice,
Unaware,
Sheened,
61
Bowstillgoing strong.
But somewhere in the sassy grotto,
He heard slight huff of hooves on rock,
Turned, spasmed, tilted his cumquat head,
Angling in the black tarpit.
Muffled by tones,
The braying of an ass,
Rasstumped and stumbling without a weight in the calcium garage.
And sure, an ass he saw in the dark,
Droop in the eye and carrying crabeyes for the cave dweller.
Hurrah, my assy pigtail, my Stanford cocolily has arrived!
Jumped on the assback,
Pronto grunting,
Screwed crabeyes into oolite skull,
And punched the donkey in the ass,
They galloped mad into the corerock.

These eyes are cool, I feel like troglodyte,
Aflight this porcelain mule,
Screeching past corners and B&Bs.
Pith sardine I am in my Jerry clothes,
Blithe these jagged jagrocks,
Screaming round them in a Hellenic,
Gory necked and blurred vision.
But wait, whats that I see,
To my right to my left,
Scouting armstrength I can muster,
These naked mimickries on the walls,
We cannot rush my donkey boy.
Mmm, pudding bowl in my lambfodder hands,
With toppling crumbs,
Culinary dazzledish,
Distilled dangerouslyfine,
Dickymagoo drinking da dry dacquiri,
Down deep, thistling deck of cards.
Hold steady my soft steed,
Watch your tender ungules,
We must be beneath Jerusalem,
Pray to Virgil.
Did you hear that snapping?

A she-wolf they heard,
Her ungodly percolating through the Karst terrain,
Karate kidmint and the snapping of infidels,
Drowning in honey.
62
Brubakers gal, howl bluebeans,
Jeans downed follicles pressed into chatterlamps,
Parsley orange aside,
Our pear were splitting hairs down into the deep ravines of hell.

Sshh, be serene sewrenmammoth,
This cava is sweet as I look all around me,
Carnalite and the Roches Carbonatees of Cayeux.
A marvelous density in these coquina walls,
Like the dripping of calcium in the Manhattan fall,
I feel howling of souls in the depths of this lair,
Let us push hard into it,
Be brave bumchum, dont despair.

The diamicts were stacked,
Dishlex and sprinkling diatoms,
Cherts, dinoflagellates, bulbous in the ore,
Swelled by pressure, facing the suncoal.
On each side stalactites,
Tight like stalls of amber bone,
Stalagmites beneath them,
Like the might of stags as they stagger and stalk mites in acts of tall lags.
Looking up into stream piracy,
Trellis drainage,
Glacier raccoons hopping `round in the dactyls,
Up to their heads in a Tombolo thrust,
Barometer bathtub riding abreast the bald Inuit,
Clutching warp tussles,
Tuff inorder distravertine,
Creepsoap caring thinly oil paste,
And the warm smell of her cheek.
A sap silhouette of the two sagponds,
Outlining their bodies tense-like,
Appetite for solifluction,
Splay the wagtail,
Become a horse.

And as they rode into the blackmaze,
Behind their backs in the ooze of the throng,
Gangs of pelagic fossils in the mamograph slate,
Ti ti, ti ti, they would gurgle,
Gigglingfluvial at the walrus tusks in their Turonian shales.
He turned around,
What was that glub?
Did laughter I hear way behind in the schist?
63
From this bromide tap let us drink for I thirst,
Good it is to find chemicals in the bowels of the dead.

In dank tunnel, lagoonal boorbatholith,
As he sipped clay water and tonic for his shoal soul.
In the midnight canister all was well,
Quelling impromptu the verge gabbro,
Sial wrinkle ridge on his throat,
Like a rowboat descending into the volcanic boudoir.
Securing his bonnito bollard,
Brackish in the Bolshevik balalaika,
Seeking to find,
Stressing vesicle yazoo,
Boer water he was gulping,
As the playpebbles joked non-stop,
Teetering on the sedge.

Gulp, his crab eyes sook and found,
A gaintly door neatly thumping to his side,
Four dragons inscribed on the miocene edges,
Golden bolts bulging down it in the simple dark corner.
What could it be my cross-bred friend?
I feel tempted to knock it yet I tremble in fright,
Let us go over yonder to that mannequin slab,
And inquire of it softly what ones destiny might.

And so they pranced up to the door,
First paused, then dismounted onto the gravel floor.
Nine circles braced the solid boon,
And three wild beasts between were strewn,
A spotted leopard on the hook,
A lion stomped into the braw,
The she-wolf of their tunnel dreams,
Was laced and figured on the door.
On the left side there lay a handle,
Mangled, twisted like a serpents tongue,
Embroidered from the finest sulfur,
And smiling at the two white guns.
What shall we do?
Where does it lead?
I might miss dinner at Boyds Tulsa Lounge,
Corrupt the script I say, Ill open it,
And dance with those beasts till me blood curdles black.

Tropical dust from the maraca loon,
64
Thrust around his pink knuckles as he took to the door,
Braced his weeping green hands,
Took his ass by the reins,
And pushed open the slab boiling blood in his veins.
With great lightning clapping,
And black thunder drenched into their animale brains,
Through the flapping of bats wings,
And the screech of dry breaks,
Balls of flame and wicked stench,
They dropped like two humps into roller-coast chairs.
With tortoil speed they were carried along,
Upon whimpering rails and dark ash in their chests,
Clouded in smoke from below,
Cindering paw paw in their seats,
The inferno was lively to their companies beat.

My Lord, I feel the days are ended,
For sweet smell of peace is all gone from this place.
Take hold, who are those fiends before us,
Their shadows long and smiling sharp,
In darkened circles they must dwell,
Around the gates of Dis in this heliotrope hell.

As they whipped through cauldrons of fire and melted paper,
Down into volleys boron safety as a last resort,
And caps of horn they wore as helmets to protect,
A flood of shrills and black forest chills,
Welled up swift to the two bricks,
Thrashing tongues and malignant stares.
Malacoda,
In his purple dress,
Led those Malebranche,
In a fit of scolding breath.
Come Alichino, Calcabrina and Cagnazzo,
We have children here to scare,
And their ears to torment for they are plump.
Call Barbariccia, Libiocco, Draghiagnazzo and Ciriatto,
Graffiacane, Farfarello and Rubicante,
Let us drape them in our wails.

These uncouth shades,
From toe to tip,
Espoused in clatter duststorm twist,
And mailed into mesh,
Like a disheveled cry into the interior,
65
Broadened in space and blown up gasping for air.
Rigor lentils plucking elephant inches,
Braced flavoured and reptilian,
Onto amphibolus blastomere,
All but surrendered to his naughty genes.
Made sap and foil in the circles of fire,
On a roller coaster sharp-drop,
And slow-climb into the panacea,
His head was filled with blazing mysteries,
And churning quests into Aladins Persia-a-gogo,
His crabeyes brittle in the heat,
His ears aboil with flaming peat,
A tumbling weight thrust all around,
A chaos turned him upside down.

Then, glance he did at fellow spook,
His donkey mate beside himcool.
No drop of sweat from donkey brow,
Or gasp of fear from astor snout,
Still,calm
How strange,
When all thats hell is all around,
He plays his thumbs to deepwood sounds,
Enclenched, unmoved from where he sits,
This mule to whom I look in fits.
Starboard is dry and elemental,
Fist to myself,
Shaking like gimp clamped to the handbar.
They will eat us for sure,
Our mortal morals,
Roms and oras,
Lorm als sidekick trembling,
We must clasp to life.

But his lovable chump,
Mule,
Heard none of his panic,
Sat he did all alone in a tulip arrest,
Folded gyral and enigmatic,
With ears pricked to all things,
He heard little aeroplanes in the frenzy,
And lived there for years.
His eyes,
Skinned grapes,
Yet clear like Caspian crystals,
66
A canvas of glass rowing bootleg in the storm.
Still closer I draw to those gut magnets,
Ten thousand worlds within each speck,
Maybe more

I was drawn,
Plunged into them,
Surrounded,
Surrendered to the peregrine ambiscuttle,
Leaping in a sauce and blades of Jericho,
Still were his pupils,
And rich pouring broth into mine.
I saw he was struck by love for one in his dreams,
He could not reach her save bottled in a dreamflask,
Still stranger to be maddened into pain by a ghost.
So I left him there,
And went somewhere else.
A hollow rickshaw,
I sat bound down by my seaweed coat,
Spinning empty rum bottles in the stormbeaten sand,
Bruised like the empty desert,
Salt brashed in the endless foreverment.

The sadness of the world felt cold around him,
Stinging him open,
He could never stop those painful sleepwalks,
A hoax in a tambourine chumbus,
Bleeding fresh words onto the wet planes of water.
A rodent,
Hand in hand,
They walked together in the pristinity,
Unabashed by splendor millenius,
Full of evil,
And the crux of mysteries yet to come.
Palm trees were swaying,
And troppo tyranex insta-wriggle gave them glints,
From broadwood sand grains,
Trickling into their dry mouths the pure tyranny of time.
Stepping over it and plunging uncontrollably forth,
Fusing hydrotonnes as the black waves crashed onto the basalt.
His world became ecliptic,
Eleptic,
Staged and to tall for dandelions,
Wretched purselollies,
Skybox foray,
67
Brighton peel embargo,
And the glory to himself.
A life he lived in this pot,
Marooned,
Mummified and wondering why,
Drugged-out for the place was for it,
And making works from the shadows of men.

He lived like that for seven years,
And feeling light in the warm glow of evenings,
Until one day he found himself,
Outback the cave `nto which hed stumbled,
So long ago with his donkey friend.
Indeed his mule was there beside him,
Swollen with grass in the soft country night,
Sitting shallow in the oily rubble,
Watching the glassy molten sky.
Then from the valley down below,
Our brittle nut heard a familiar sound,
It was those speedy forest acorns in that candle-lit car,
Racing,
Weaving their stems in the billowing cart.

Wait, here I come!
He gasped out loud,
And sprung into a lazy flight,
With arms aflap and legs bowtangled,
He soon dropped down without a fight.
Ill never catch them now, he sighed,
And turned to see his braying bro,
The stone cold mule was sitting low,
And breathless in the mellow field.
And then through the tall grass blades,
A gentle breeze stirred,
And brushed the ass back with its castanet rub,
Sure the mule got up slowly,
And fell walking deep into the night.
His steps were small,
Shuttlestale and watered down,
Drooping like fog over water,
It seemed he was driven by the murmur of cows.
And as our plain nut watched that bland donkey walk,
All broke and twisted in a heap,
He could not help but wonder slightly,
Where the hell is he going?
68

The Si mon s Baby





69
Good Bennet!
Came a cockly cry from the old saddlery,
Mah Carltons bucked and shot through,
Spat the cartwhistle, bolted up the seesaw,
And ran amuck.

The hefty commotion
From Bald Titans Buckyard Stables,
Left all of Carrumhweeney in a stir.

Paul Ram came sprinting in a huff,
His pink neck gorged with lemon smack,
The Burtle Omeo bacon store,
Went up ablaze in milkmelt snore,
Miss Pantyripple jumped quicksmart on the phone,
Said, Down in the town theyre ticklin de bone.

Curse of almonds they were singing,
Shuffling in circles,
Barking underneath their yellow moustaches,
Something was awry.

-Buckweed timbers,
Oh my itchy carapace!!
The bubblebath belongs
to our Bison Beetlewhacker-

All the bystanders looked in disarray,
Squid thoughts racing,
As the stable masters paste and paced,
Horsehair clutching at their grubby hands.

He flew like a sluice,
That daggerbrat,
Beast me if I ever catch that stallion,
Porridge hell be blessed to rumbuckle
In the pasture with that aintsomethin.
Da disser must not have got far,
Hwas a bulky hurd and swine for the barley,
Pristine bollocks,
Handsome papar,
And his mother was a puller,
Gone to the jelly this time,
Crumbled through me crusty fingers.
Ai remember the young suckling,
70
E was faun at the crack of first light,
And nudging at me crinkled breast.

A moment was shared with himself,
A tear for his lost fawn.

Oi, get the dogs!
Ill catch that rabid Collin,
Wherever hed be this day,
Ill bring him back!
(Triumphant)

The dogs were fetched and strung about,
In dogged mob of howling snouts,
A barrel filled with maple cider,
For good luck toasted by the hennery.
The squeak of boots and Holy Mass,
Bunt rag they scoot and huddle round,
The night theyll need to search out thus,
The woods encircled by the hills,
They roll and bunch,
Green to the gills.

Poor Albert, watching from the coronary,
Two quick miles up the valley,
Steppish a little in his horsy flannel,
He could clearly see the buzz down below.
With panting hooves,
And a chirping from his Whittaker,
The free boy, fugit nervous,
Convict in the bushes,
Shackling the borson off acacia,
Twick his undervein carefully,
Inserting playdough,
Mooring the hedge ballistic.

And slightly wet up in the tree,
His hiding place for all to see,
What was he thinking at the spur,
When kicked he did and flew in err.
Now stifled log he hangs in fright,
For what will come with cast of night.

The fracas on his mind was simmering,
Brewing something,
71
Letting on the vapours to the pettituoir.
The dead bones of Joseph he smelt,
Hanging in the Myrtle canopy,
Birthing on the Jew stone a puddle Bucephalus,
Taunting the mason in manyways distant,
Anima bubbling to the sweet hurrah,
His fleshy glands, that of a beefcake,
Simple receptacle and the blood to his ticker.
Thump, Thump,
Sokol the coolmint,
Birdie the breadwinner,
In a vestibule oarslake,
Splashing joyfully out in the black middle.
For the sake of Jeremy let us put its place in Devon,
Or better the Dover,
With its seasick greenwash and serrated cliffs,
Balling raindelay in fevers grey pall.

The bearings on his Allbut shoulders,
Frightening, secessionist,
Seditionary, usurpistic,
Banquet a gallon on his little toe,
And pray the rest be sweet like mash.
And touch he did his granite skull,
The pounding gases in it null,
I must be off. Ahoy to ground!
Make do with grace and little sound.

Procession for the pony,
With schoolgirl steps he began to descend,
The ladder wood and brownbark stairs,
Oiled well with castro,
And gelo from his cornbread hooves,
The stabbed galosh felt a twitch of hairs
In his pollycrack moves.
Iris deepmeat,
The chortle brabaska,
Neb the Truscan,
Fury fighting Odessas supple hominid.

The intensity of life was exhausting him,
Twirling in the dance,
An apocalypse of the fleeting form,
Time is wanton but space is the soul.
Feeble and fatigued,
72
On the wet brim of vomit,
Jesuz would help him find the way,
Or better still a harbouring zest,
A latent plume,
A billowing contempt for the vege-booties.

You are the phlegm Cassidy,
She pebbled in her muddy drawl,
Oft the wilder to this riddle,
Rook the seventh comet spoke.
Be the turtle.

Porkering down the trunk,
Petro lit sycamore bullion,
Retrograde arranged Salinger blisterwar,
And something Whitehorse,
Lend the bane for the outward indigo,
Salutations for The Baron.
Deep in the wood there lay a quiver,
A mustering rumble,
Must the river,
The portly broad perched where he could,
And clamped his ear firm in the bark,
The sun sank low,
Its whimper last,
He listened trenchant to the dark.

~For the love of Horatio,
A decent funeral
For Dundees brave cobber.
~Dress the man magniloquent,
And pepper his boy to Norfolks old floosie.
~Sure be the lionwasher.
~Jim be the cattrip.
~Brenda crossed Feston!
~In the light of day
Our guinea licks a mighty pound.
~The shores I meant.
~Glassware for Eldorado.
~Gonza got there by 1404?
~The dribble must be dank
For a buckling cutlass to draw weather.
~Darn your salty cutlass!

Bickering spink he overheard,
73
Simons baby a chink off the ole bootlicker,
Sasseking far inside the Ventor,
And a Christmas woo woo
For the sodden infant.
Eagle pierce my heart tonight,
This tree is bedeviled,
And all that is wright is wrong,
As the path to Shapiro is long.
`I am the sauce!
Be still Kitty.

`Orse choked bringeth to the fore,
Your cuttle swash en essence Broubadour,
Curtailing his cudgums up the tree,
He stabbed around for where hcould see,
A tissen blink,
A feisty sit,
A window down through which hed fit,
His offal pod to catch a glimpse,
Arranged down there the barky chimps.

Name your price Mortimer!
Bellowing into the hollow matrimony
(in a towering French gown
coming down the velvet stairs).

Eisenhoover scrambled up a leafy stalk,
He squashed his eyes and took a gawk,
The place was bracketing acelets,
Keels, squalls, tiff tappers.
Able Teddy in a boot,
Passing out a flavoured shoot,
Crossbow Cassowary striking the mutton,
And boy almighty!
Jigglin, struttin.
Eel in tutu probing the undertable,
And flying circles someday Bovary.
The beast is ours.
Hour toys resplendent in the ladies bucket,
A tree filled with the black happiness,
Teasing at the bar.
Codsbody tearing down the walls,
Licking feet with sharks mammaries.
Costa Rica Fandango.
The beer was flowing freedom,
74
Inside the gullets of those tree creatures,
Eating differences on be different tables,

Biscuit ordinates,
Dip Easter,
Twack seasoning.
Cusp ratchet the evening,
Procure a pittance
In the swarm of the tenfold,
Little bee on a cowboy,
Frisked a talon and whisked a duglas
Inn with the others.

Oh freedom pulse,
Cool down the sack,
My true nature somewhere out there.
To the Antioch!

Goldilockstein in the trash,
He put the metal up for Flash,
Soothing Gattack, pussens, spritely nimble,
Oh befall the shame upon the hairy thimble.
And fumbling around in his brittbarken nest,
Slithering pitter patter in the leaves,
For Liptons orange keys,
You gotta git down on yr nees, boy.
They were nowhere in the Sequoia.

Great Evoa! Come hither!
I am Robert of Broght,
Operator of the steel castalion,
Conductor of the alpine cab,
And a serape I foster,
For the shivering, rattling traveller.

Up in the shadow-drenched canopy
Stood the muttface,
Calling down to the infected rump.
`So, So, Bibi thought Horace to his Self,
`A Cabrina ride could do ya a guess.

Wrapping his hooves in the thick sobriety,
And laughing out loud as if the life were his,
Kip of Carrumhweeney swung like a devil
On his slick liane,
75
Sweet tight Patachi!
Up to the Cabrienette,
At rest in the high foliage.

Hightime reserved just for you my good flower,
Let me slip this serape warmly over your flank.
And so it was, Master Broght,
Armoured full to the teat,
Wrapped the fluttering serape,
Round Kips baby brown back.
Then,
Clenched his fist and spun about,
In poof of smoke he vanished,
Gone,
Frittered himself away,
But left a serape behind in the cool ether.

A sweet stocky moon hung ever so bald,
Upon the frosty silhouettes of the Ponderosa pines,
Hooting sprinkles of owl sounds drifted rhythmically,
Into the vacant updrafts,
Settling after a while into silence,
Being like nothing else,
Simply there.

Such His intent,
`Tis not to be,
Tonight no flutter from the Son of Fred.
In this The Lucky Monkey,
R pulp, but princess the night is your fruit,
Our labour splendid fitting slowly in the cracks.
Slackules of brainpower crack my skull this small hour,
The Pilchard thrust into the bay,
To swim once more in glories day.

Kips fluttering serape.
Lined with trinkets of cobalt,
Running slender and swift,
Upon horsys' wild back.
You are a man? in a rare furry mumble,
`What? A babbling serape on me stuck,
Microphone to my shoulder to sooth a warbling babble.

Indeed he did have a friend on him,
Light and keeping him warm,
76
Boring complicatoes into the distance,
Instant fresh in mesh of flesh,
Working all harday
For a `Ra, Ra at the Stan Atherton OCoy.

Where for art thou, my destiny?
From whom Pandora shall spring?
Unknowing yet surreptitiously upon thee,
Switched on to the rabid gasp,
Floundering soupsoap,
Pugnacious scratchmyself,
In all the creamy towns of the corners world.

In a sleepy corner of his shoulder blade,
There were shadows building metal balls,
Brackish fantasies, inferno godgrab,
Stapling porcupine dextressities,
Alibi in the moonlight,
Saturn flipped dangerously,
From the Zaragoza fliplid.

Into the plush cab Kip strode,
Suspended some odd metres,
From forests matted floor,
Luxury interior, luxus scented through the pillows,
A seat for him by windows lucent hue.
Placed his serape dreamily upon his tender lap,
Allknowing that she was asleep,
Unknowing of her desperate rest,
In the wide womb of uncreated night.
`To forever play with the stars, he thought,
As the cabriolette swoon pitched its gentry away.
`I want never to find it, always lost,
Buzzboxed continuum in oldejoys mellow tinge,
I do believe, I want.

He was overcome by helplessness,
A sorrow desperate,
Overwhelming all the nooks and hiding places,
Inside the barn red beast.
Dandling serendipity,
Slowly creaking along in the posthumous mess,
Taking the trip to some place,
Stupid before the will of God,
All the while watching from a great height,
77
The evolution of Man on the vast Zambian plains,
Being watched from the seas by the primal lifeblob.
A herd of brachiopods chasing demons,
Back to the Franco-Cantabrian zone,
Jubilant, redeemed at last,

To breath,
To bathe in orbs colourful sick,
To walk the earth with giant steps.
In his lolly eyes and mud-soaked face,
The blackholes jumped and broke their legs,
Great cave bears wrestling down below,
Heard breaking bones and loved the sound,
For sweet intoxication in terrors silent stop,
Beyond salvation,
Sudden frost.

`How could it go so muttering wrong,
It felt so and undeathable,
Holy on the 13
th
,
I cant deny when spheres did turn before my eyes,
And now a place like none before,
A foreign circle.
Where is that wood to which I ran,
No sign, just residue of distant harmony,
Forlorn,
Tripped over,
Supine.
I feel a turbulence in this air,
My prince have you forsaken me today?
This rackety cab wont hold much longer,
It squeaks at the edges,
Must I be stronger?
Oh what the use,
Beyond my will the drops of His quill,
Infirmo who creates?

And then a flash of livid force,
Lit up the prairies,
Post-modernism,
Cubist thought,
The jungle cataract,
Alien seabeds,
The saucy sky,
Kips coocoo leucotomy,
78
Transported suddenly through many revolutions,
And stricken by its speed,
To high atop white mountain peaks,
Razor fresh, jagged to death,
With milkskin running down their sides.


Bubbling some tea on his four knees,
In the puck brown casket of that kettle balloon,
His dear serape strapped around Kips bald head,
Puffing cubes of smoke into that open sheath.
`Pray more, eat less,
Do what is best,
Came a thin draft from serapes prickly lips.
Hmm, sign of a good woman that,
Wardly drobe flickin scissor kicks,
In allnights pustule sway,
Pointing into all the seven corners,
Of lotus freedom prisoners,
Lamenting two-door sorry,
Eat his way out of it this time, I bet.

At last he felt he could let go,
Chuck it round his lobster neck,
Let the buckle slide to yonder,
Gaze forever into depth.
The space was there to be free,
No more nothing,
Only.
It was a warm chill,
A cuddling into it,
Brave in the ignorance of knowing.

Somewhere far in the distance,
Kip heard the lonely despair
Of millions world turning,
`I have only the winter left.
I am long dead.
`How beautiful, he thought,
Through the gushing corridors,
And echoed opiate veins,
Such darling arrangement,
Paradise awaits.

And waiting no longer,
79
No more hunched in the basket,
Betty Cowpus urging him over,
With her sleeveleaves engaged,
The Kipper pricked his furtive head
Up high with bravo,
Exemplifying good form,
Neglecting diesis in balloons friendly sniff,
Aging like coke in Burmas sextet,
With cheeckbones withered,
Feeling the prick of fresh country air,
High `pon the rim of the sky,
Being slowly frostbitten,
Into nitrons custard tart.

A helluva wind blew into Kips grassy muzzle,
And he, prompt as a top,
Coiled his cotton serape,
Firmly pressing the thing,
Keying it into his ears,
Patching up exposure,
With timelags easy smile.

Her ladys muffin pants carousing in the clouds,
Listless, unabashed,
Whispering to Kip of Nestors haughty pool.

`Its like buying diamonds isnt it?
What?!
In the hub of Bill they paused together,
As Bulbards Tsar the Earth below them,
Changing the lizard grass,
Scampering oer top NEPALIA,
Brooding in a placid haunt.
`Where Arthur?
Kip breathed that meekly quiver,
But hushed he was with gentle wool,
By the wicked witch and her wicked ways.
Inside his head she practiced her squash-you-both,
Dont you be no naughty lettuce,
Look out for hobo spice.

Kangchung they drifted over,
Embraced in style for the frosty altitude.
Then Taboche pierced the lemon brine,
Toast of Ishmael,
80
Crampons incinerated at fourthes brill steppe.
The loins of Tobo Lhaptshan,
In gritters glacial icepick,
The pip of evangels,
Hanging from cornices barbarican hang,
Scary in the limelight,
As pregnant whipsnippers cavorting dang,
Outside her muddy frontier.

Thamserku,
The jaded cowrock,
And Gyachung Kang,
Polite upon the cruel cebicle.
Mission of Makalu in the effervescent abyss,
Blue from Gokyo,
With tasselled locks braided scarletine,
In evenings cool foray.
Eateatree bundled into every prayer-wheel,
Along Lhotses razor ridgeback request,
Reeling up the bloody slope.
For whom the last gurgle,
Stamen blast the moraine winterly,
And little cuts on my worn extremities.

You dare,
You toasty trollop?
Get a tattoo,
Make yourself an individual,
A violus writ on ladle delt,
Bran spank the milk,
Who knows.cant die of a bruised banana.

Kips blessed serape was whispering something,
Wrapped in his brain,
The spacenavel sodding the two,
As in their pompous balloon they floated,
Asundering lobeoils,
The upperstratums boilintotheblur,
A might unto all sax,
Carefully edging `pon the precipice.
`Adollarfifty that was, adollarfifty! she curdled,
Burning with delicious.

Out there in the Osirian meadow,
The breaking of hearts could be heard from towns away.
81
A glassphenous plane abounding the tight bubble,
Squeezing out Yogis to the onepoint.
At peace in the `Malayan square,
Wrenching his guts at the sheer height,
Pax oriolis with the jungle at his feet,
Kip got tucked to Lonesome Owen.

Standing in the casket proper,
Ching of cold fingernails,
The guttural quoea rising the bool further highwards,
Oh somewhere, all for this.
Seesawing rainbows like the colourful balloon,
Clear as the crystal day,
Blown up with hot air,
Getting colder.
Eaglet twist round Pseudos clammy rope,
High up in the Himalayan Kingdom,
Billion to bits,
Faking his own only gasm,
Tirawa waiting for the right one.

A slight moment passed,
Up in that terrible serosity,
The unsettling stillness pow-wowing Kip
To undress those elegant eyes,
Basking his whole body in the jealous cocobuzz
Of the tundras paradisoplex,
Looking outwards for it,
Well upon skys scrapped-up maize.

And then it came in mild trickle,
From serapes non-mouth,
Pythoned around Kips neck,
She placed her fronds close, intimate like,
Browsing pointlessly in the last minute,
Bothering only to be,
She whispered/screamed,
Deep to his ear:
BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBR
ONNTONNERRONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARRHOUNAW
NSKAWNTOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK(ssh).




82
The sky cracked open,
Pouring out an equanimity of lotus petals,
A strange pity in the unchanging rapture,
Down by the shadow of a slab,
Cold slate,
The grey earthstuff acoil
In Alls aesthetic pop.

Some mountain goats and grandpa yaks,
From moonbeams hairy pastures,
They kept chewing the tik-grass,
Masticating all along the drafty slope,
Slamming a posy by the river.
A throng of paltry molluscs,
Secreted in the fragile sediment,
A bivalvian renaissance
Vis a vis `The Radula.

The poignant autumn weatheropen
Was fast blooming,
In the grip of

And crouching in the gargoyle backdrop,
Some burly loons noticed Kips good madness.

But alas, it was too late,
He was already freefalling to his sudden death.

















83
The Cat acomb Fet i sh



























84
Racing blindly over the Orlando Crest,
to satisfy his catacomb fetish.

Sounds like the good doctor will see yall in his prissy
bungalow.

Bother not the snarling lion,
Whose juniper like the crisp threadbare sways,
Suspended from a hackney rope.

Entitle me to some of that peasant goodness,
Oh I need some,
Just to whet my palate.
To know again that skinless aroma
Bucketing up my quivering nostrils,
Ahh, proof of life.

Aloof zealot, am I?

A burgeoning unsettlement inside the very womb from which
the world was come. Does anyone in this post-sensationalist
landscape keep a promise anymore?

But wait, I have one,
Hiding in me buttered coat.
Its slick and tight,
And eager to delight.
All thats required now
Is for heavens bloom to open `pon it.

Why now Lord Byron?

Why whenever indeed.
One always wants to fight to breathe.
For a quick breath Ill do some horrendous deed,
Fake myself for many years.

To foolscap the ornate night,
Prancing round in a colourbell
Like some easy tramp.
Thats the ticket,
Thatll saunter Sanchos lily-white ivory mess.

In the underground channels,
Whilst the city slept,
85
Cluttering and meandering
Inside the tubes and vesicles,
The rubber mold was spreading her lilac limbs
And preaching to the cobblestones:

There are no decisions to make.
They were all answered a long time ago,
Somewhere here,
In the jewelled stench.

Celebrate,
Be full of grate,
Let yourself be squeezed into the floor of a truck.
What some may say is naught but luck,
It brought us here through rills and choke,
And still, blindly racing over yonders slope,
Still proof of life in sudden grope.


86
The Perfect Ani mal
(Or The Great Nat ural i st i c
Advent ure )



























87
I remember,
Heliotropes carousing breathlessly the didactitude upwell,
From spores sent into endless directions;
By pliant, malleable extremities.

Beyond the skyline there was less oxygen, yet so much more to
inhale,
It made me want to burst,
Explode into a billion miracles,
Bask in a thousand oracles,
Let the goring excellence pass through my body and heal all my
ravenous iniquities;
In a sweeping cascade-laced frenzy,
Almighty already scribbling something by calling to the muddy
banks,
Alive in shackles pool!

The fuel that binds us welded,
Smoldering ungratefully,
Maybe grated from some primal cheese;
And then I saw the Perfect Animal.
It made me want to reach a physical, ethereal optimum,
And so I began to saut molecules with basil rind and ochre stab.
To move them toward the desired outcome,
Toward this outcome moving.

For angels growing wings and take me past the yonder dwell,
To gain it all,
To be OPTIMAX.
Can me desire the flightless state,
Whos natures secrets burrowed,
When only That within I am intends,
This ALL encompass.

Be silent, listen,
Move none but that which moves never,
And answers there,
Let it weave its liquid spell.

Burkina Oxfam negates the yellow spell,
Spooky syndrome blasting forthright,
And tanks full of billowing light.
If the light were to shine my way I would wobble the world on
its axis,
Shake the foundations of furlong gravitas,
88
Career the ball to a timeless spot.
Satiety that builds on nougat twigs, I saw it building,
Timidly poking its head round to spring me.
To forests illustrious Ill follow it,
In the middle of her giggling fit,
Echoing in the dry wood a seasonal rumbunction,
When strong recitated,
Banned all newcomers to his nettle maze.
Inside there lived two golden bears,
With bone for teeth and monster stares,
Beware when shaking clumps from seeds;
Quietly tip-toeing round sleepyheads soporific clench,
And we all fell into his typhoon gondola,
Took us into the lake.

The cold waters were full of steely bass,
Twice removed the ice-caps from their helmet scaffolding,
Incoming pools stung with nutrition,
Vaults trapped in caucus rants:
`We saw limestone cities with elbow room sculpted,
Running in percolate patterns and white in the sizzling seaweed
Behemoth.

Clay urns the size of planets burning pearls and 1
st
prize in their
terracotta bowels.
The fire could be seen, and felt,
Even as we glided high along the edges of some octopuses
sleeves;
Serene in her succulent embrace.

Equanimity pondered, the rose in bed linen,
Spread out against some precious melodies flat hulk,
Over the rainbow, and over the crest,
Over temptations punched bony breast.

When Hercules eye-drops fell in the rainmaker,
Being fleeting is not enough,
PARADISO ADESSO!

Poncho politely navigated raindrops fall onto the plastic
canopy.

The glow aint a soldier;
It is impervious to all judgment.
Take the time to be.
89
Thy movements an illusion,
Only consciousness walks, and scatters, and peels,
And stalls, and plunders and saunters,
And stipulates, and climbs,
And shivers in the darkness glare.

I know because It is made known to me.
Me?
To Me? To Be.
To B.
To.
T.
In the beginning there was only the Word,
Then the Word was made flesh.
And Osiris got typhoid first;
So surreal when Bud Celestial, `His Royal Crispiness,
Was caught in Peter with blue-moon Venderson.
Carrying the flatulent symphony,
Aback all those boys broad anxious shoulders.

In all this time I always wondered how to take it further,
I guess I always thought it was made of timeless,
Ineffable, inconsistent moments;
Drowning and surfacing upon the non-existent plane.
And on one account I was right;
I was wrong to think it beyond me.
It is always there,
Choice within attention;
Power within intention.

I am aware that I can access it whenever I so choose,
Yet I do not exist,
My mask and my eternity, only one truthfulness.
The war is to forget, to perish,
To cast into oblivion and gain in this stillness,
The infinite power to be.
I must put all my attention on the Light,
There only the Kingdom of Heaven.
Intention to create,
To manifest adventures in the Garden of Eden.
I am there at fleeting glances and thenthen movement ceases
and I can get closer.
It tells me: do your part, and leave the rest.
You cannot see, not yet, the intelligence at work.

90
And something inside him sprung out of its skin,
Follow that, over there.
I can fly, turn pepper into salt; much yet to learn.

And flowers to scent along the way,
Running through the mountains on a cross-board,
With so many colorful galaxies passing through him as a
witness.
Chasing with no desire against punctuated feet,
Engulfed in bulbs from the space squeezed between foreign
particulates;
Adrenaleen.
Paintsmell tortured by some eagles breath,
Unfortunate distance smelt eager bereaved,
Bereft of all that life on planet Sam will cherish;
Are gold and metal smiling awful thoughts,
Be thoughtful when the ball comes rolling.

Solitude and the theory of Pisces,
Equating balance with time management?
Kettle on the Blarney Stone, boiling,
Bubbling with clepsydra tea.

`I renounce you Dorian,
Begone the Darkness for now and forever.
May the soup of sweltering turgidity be scattered into the eon
masterpiece,
Which is the start and the finish, and the middle,
Of all things.
(Casting a wreckless finger towards the boundless castaway
Hellenicapod).

His mesoderm responded,
And pushed him feckle by feckle to lose himself in spherity.
Again beginning the subtle joke,
With pancakes flapping by the bough,
To the ocean one penetrates to be re-united.

Better than going to the Appalachians,
-the hot tires were swelling and exploding as one rubbersome
cacophony in the desiccated middle where I once stood.
I knew I wanted badly to leap into some great natural adventure,
imbued with splendorous mystery, and that music which was
once so important to me; when I was younger.
91
It was the devilish turbulence back then, a desperate, innocent
poignancy; depravitous in its quest for forlorn despair.
It was Love tearing at itself, or maybe just seasoning for
breakthrough, the soft refusal to exchange too soft against the
battering ram of God.

No satiety in escape; forever to wonder and never to find.

Such paradox when traveling the world, yet moving not an
inch:

`for the integral being knows without going,
sees without looking,
and accomplishes without doing.
Alive in the boon of perfection.

May the perfect lap be danced on tonight;
-by the riverside on a throbbing day, I lay down my lazy bones
and let the perfection sink into me. All around, the smell of
leaves drying from the wet morning, the dreamy sky drowning
in blue empathy; with every glance I was pulled into the intense
complacency of simple clouds moving in the cold, open
atmosphere. Always lonely; soaking in a lonesome tub.

Only to go somewhere for me, where the thing will come to
life, not unreasonable to place such alwaysness on a creature so
unhere.
Sweet, sweet heart, left behind on a rock, wrapped in seaweed
and tossed into the sea, where mermaids would find it after
millions of years and pull it into life again; maybe fill it with
some happy water.
And once, I was stuck inside a mountain hut, with snow and
the winds blowing their blowsome best, out in the beautiful
night; they were singing, `Oh Lord, dont leave me all by
myself.

Nostalgia the worst pain of all, a longing for the times once
had, the struggle to replicate by cut and paste, too slippery a
proposition you see, best to focus on what is. What is? Diet!
But dont leave it `till the sun-dried minute, it could get too late
and start up capacity when trying to loose all the fat from albeit.

Upon a thin trail they were walking,
Holding hands with strange pictures,
And lucid morsels of ebony omnipresent.
92
Serve me a plate of rain-covered trees,
With their brown, muddy knees,
And their sunny, bright smiles;
Anytime.

Therell be a time when all is as it should be,
The body meticulous,
Ill walk on rain-soaked leaves,
And close my eyes when the mountain cocktail hits me;
Slaps me hard in the chest and evaporates too quickly.
It will have to be when the silent formula is stapled and glued,
Arcane in its pluralist, calciferous worldview.
Ill take Calceolarian Syndrome anti-flu,
By my pompous design agitate Squat Tarkin,
And mellow the trellis into equavia;
Last of the grumbling tortoise,
With Antigone considered for her ashplant debut,
Weak as her Tartan datura flowerbed.

Bullrush Parkinson, the order of Eva-day,
Wilting sapsponge with flowerarms,
Holding in them a kalashnikov mean-machine.
Are you able,
Before the lore of debit turns,
Attacki Pittsburg, seal Alamo,
De-bodify Alan,
Strickstein was molested out of his weather balloon on June 7,
In Cantina, by the Bowery,
On a little balcony.

Oh Sadie,
Oh Dickens.
Oil running for lamp satisfaction;
For I am a freethinker.

Close your eyes and wait.
Travail super;
We cordially met beside her mellifluous banks,
And staring for a long time into her pearl green eyes,
Some beads of sweat began their quadradermal cycle,
Lacerating brouha and panting `till the seizure stopped.

The air was so warm and light,
That every breath seemed magnified,
In the evenings sumptuous pores.
93
Aligned in the fragrant dusk shutters,
A brief moment of insect activity hovered,
Gentle patter of mosquito wings,
A full conclusion to the pristine day.

The priceless, immaculate continent,
Could be seen `till the horizon ceiling;
Behind, the world was ended,
In the potroast lay the remnants of a half-created universe.

Desiring the romance which was always on the tip of taste,
Yet never managed to be ingested;
Could now be the season for nutrition to burst?

NO.

Take another number and wait a little longer,
Maybe a lot longer,
Maybe tomorrow.

Little by little,
Acre by inch,
Brain is the foil where seasons collide.

Bring each other to a rest,
Smutter each other,
Get into each others systems,
Pass through each tissue,
For the Way and the Path is their pre-determined suitor.

Ah, the ins and outs of it all.
Either I am the cauldron into which broth is poured,
Or the spoons wood-grained easel,
Diced the ingredients before molten rock was cast and forged
forth.

And now I can feel,
The easterly wind prescient,
Indulgent on my nape, walking into it,
Slimming the shiver.

In Roaring Jules Cornerside Dental Palace,
He was flicking through a vintage print of the Putnam linen
catalogue,
Gawking the sinew of sheets and bed lace.
94
It was a dapple pleasure,
Not unlike that gifted cocoon into which hed slip,
Every time a slight disruption entered the fray;
A pitstop to re-fuel with angry dissent,
Against how the race was going.
But then he realized,
That there would never be a time when the anger would stop,
Unless it stopped now.so that God could pass through it,
And bring about what is needed.
TRUE love: the recognition of Light by itself in flesh,

by you,

through you! (the medium)

The `Go-Between.


And sure enough the mist was rising,
In grandiose plumes,
A damp behest embracing the soil engravings,
Upon peaks, along the ridges,
Coiling into and unfurling from its dizzy sleep.
An unfettered moist aroma,
Engorging all who witnessed,
The last tearjerking steps of the humid bastion.

You have the heart of a maggot, she cried,
Locked in sadness, and crying for the cruel brutality upon her;
In a cavern,
Hidden away in those misty hills.
The lovely soft sound of rain on a wooden roof;
Delicate and coy.

First down to Dandelion gets a golden egg,
A steamed coalition facilitated their robotic movements,
-Stoic followers of the rigorous overlap-
Words and pictures held the group together,
Needing support in flaccid times.

Into the core of the Earth:
One hot expedition waiting to quench the explorers thirst.
Bring spades and skillets,
And brown paper bags,
A cape on your shoulders to warm a cold back.
95
Two sirens for times when alert is called for,
A vault full of food,
And ants at the door.
They waited and waited,
And fussed over details,
For details they knew would mend or break the journey ahead,
`Round and `round `till the ideas were dead.
The clock struck thirteen and all fell asleep,
Weary and pumped from the days eager glut,
Their dreamy repose was filled to the brim,
With calculations, Pythagoras,
And Newtons cool law.
And while they slept,
In tents, beneath banana leaves,
Three dark forces came out from the shade,
And swarmed around where the beds were made.
A virulent tempo spread in the air,
Some weakened channel was opened,
So these shadows of the sun could break through with ease,
Practicing possession between the five dimensions of the
underworld;
To bring to this sphere a tempting arrangement.
Feasting on the scattered ashes of broken hearts,
Invading dreams with their lucid shiver,
Arachnid crumble beside each pillow,
Beside each ear a kernel of their fine demonic blackity.
Searching for a spot of trouble,
A bit of murky water,
Some cesspool to sow their seedling evil.
But nothing came of it, damned wretches,
For Einstein Moseley bid them begone,
Through his manner by the candle,
And cast slander into stone;
They didnt expect him to be one of the tropical aliens.

Wrap it up Alice, its time to go now.
The campsite was hustled into a big hessian sack,
All possessions folded and readied,
Crouched at the starters pistol,
Prepared for the descent.
Into the hard metal center,
A billion wormholes along the way,
Digging to the portal of the soul of the world.


96
!

The first few days were hard and taxing,
Barrow wheels and swinging axes,
Cutting into rock and soil,
No easy way `round stinging toil.

And then a small chink burst some frivolous vapor,
Breaking through a thin strata of frail interior,
They swung their ropes down and peeked deep inside:
A magical wonderland of plastic swans and trickling water,
Red rhubarb of all holy places,
Simulated inside the temperate walls of the earths crusty
corona.
Flamboyant neon signs on the edges of a whorl tablet,
Without scant remnants of tension,
I feel so relaxed here,
Like being touched by a beautiful woman on the back of the
neck,
And pushed into her.

With the doctors being close by,
Monitoring every pulse from the polymer street.
Then they noticed `The Subterranean Nursing Academy,
Tucked under a brand chamomile flute tryst,
In the icy shade of tall metal beds,
Arranged with some etherized patients upon them;
Fluids flowing in all directions,
Under the watchful eye of Matrons tube-staff.

Just once,
a lasting happiness,
A warm fundraiser to fall from,
Like a large heavenly pillow,
To break my cheek upon.

The search deepened, further,
Through corridors of schist,
The terrain brutal and hypnotic;
An angry delta waiting to be discovered and overrun.
In the land of pheromones,
A dazzling sizzle was the extract upon every mans lips;
Protraction inevitable or maybe just chosen,
Or maybe just frozen,
In the boring pits of a ladys arsenal.
97

The balmy scent hung heavy in the air,
It was all to do with the intrinsic irrelevance of having fun
putting up a sign.
A true abundance, the real prospectus for all possibilities,
Where all dreams are realized;
Coming into the physical world.

All that Vera Gutton wanted now was for her barren huckstable
to bear fruit,
At long last, no more guessing;
To have some knowledgeability about the theory,
Thats all.
But which one should I go for now?
Maybe go for all of them and see which one I actually get,
But what if I get all of them? (panicked)
none of them. (resigned)

The sun was setting over the Terra Loom,
A kaleidoscope rouse withdrawn and expansive;
Drooling her profusive color all over the brown landscape.
The passers-by were stunned by her beauty,
Of the scene,
By its contract with the matted backdrop,
To assign a pinch of elasticese to every hovering saccharine
droplet;
Just so as to practice their aesthetic collisions,
In peace.

How can I bring succor to your desperate case.
Such searing empathy like never before,
I would take off your burden and place it upon me to dissolve,
So that the oppressive dark shroud would be banished forever,
To let you breathe your infinite potential.
Only say the Word and it shall be done.
I will not rest `till youre free.

Why all this emotionality, weakening my immune system,
The crass search for a body,
Mangled, loitering tempestitude,
Will a solution ever arise?

One must remain autonomous at all times,
Centered like the iron core,
When tenderized, go with it,
98
Attention on the unknown here.
The remains of this weekend have changed me badly,
But maybe better for the next weekend.
Stolen all my precious vitality,
At times, splattered me into a wailing ball.
I feel like having a thousand nights in succession like that one,
I needed it desperately,
And now I need,
I need it even more.

I gotta tell ya,
It scooped me innards right out.

At least Im getting closer each time around.
But it took off with my freedom,
Therefore it must be destroyed,
The arteries must not be blocked,
All limitations must be trodden right over.

Riding over to the Love Tabernacle,
On a herd of giant underground mud-skippers,
Easter Bloomberg and Monica Moniker,
Caught all of the lust-ridden chapels cheap lustre,
On their cunning long faces.
Inside the pool arena, a veritable Parliament of squid,
Molluscs, tiny amoebas, water-spiders, cuttlelentils, rainbow
plume-bellied rays, lews, electric eels, lazy bones, catfish, half-
roasted pantofels, dizzy sharks, seals, prison jail-bait, all
attractive races from the Tentacle Kingdom, all gasping squash
from the valleys of Queen Lickety, seahorses: red, black, purple,
the color of sin, blushing, white as a ghost, tempted, led, arrived;
underneath the massive glass flask,
They were watching the gray city swoon,
As a basket woven and undone in the pitter-patter of childrens
steps.
The billboard was filled with vital policy:

-who gets to sit under the waves with the tide;

-when should the moon be flipped back-to-front;

-how cold is the perfect temperature.

Heaving ghoulishly through the gall door,
An underground seraphim penetrated the bawdy senate,
99
Flapping and swinging his wings,
Cutting with a fine blade the thick-horned raunchiness into
slices.

I suggest we motion the piphany,
Let its fervor digest,
And pass it round the back angle.
Done.

!

The green waves kept slapping the fine brown sand,
One after the next,
As our troop of weary hunters settled for a time,
Underneath the orange boulder sky,
Contemplating their next tricky navigational maneuver.
Two moons were glazing overhead,
With bright blue stars constantly falling,
Splashing the atmosphere with extra strangeness.
The earth was rumbling,
Creating lakes in the blink of an eye,
Growing mountain chains on its fertile back.

He was into Katherine Heburt,
`A very disgusting young man,
A very glad phenomenon,
Brimming with the sales pitch.

The lucrative decision bugged Gallon Wise `till the very last;
-of ecclesiastical volition, but his sadness towards eczema was
overpowering, undeniable.
Even when the holidays ruled, especially then.

In an egg-white sandstorm,
Coming over the stark horizon,
Like a big fat hornets nest;
Dripping hunk recitin onto the paper-thin floor.
The hot emotion coldly stinging,
A branch of sweet juices to flop onto.

The separated parties,
Picking away into the hole-filled outer layers of the world;
Dangerously close to falling apart.
Burt Lungcastle and Audrey Laundry,
Along with Piston Wheeler, Debbie Toolate and Kirsten First,
100
Were all waiting for the group to re-unite;
By the giant oak,
Eyes fixed on everyones return.

I could murder some candy, fellas.
Awful how the tablets brittle, wont dissolve,
Cotton only for my tongue.
Some off-beat, fluent conversation ensued, spiraling:

-Id love to see some human attitude.
-Do you remember when passing that stone, I accidentally
barged out the Theory of Mechanics? Some good use for it now,
hey?

Eager to satisfy a deep, greedy hunger,
A lust for more,
The gluttonous restlessness,
Destabilizing some weaker elements,
Inside the fine structure of the crew.

-Lets do it, regardless.
-Marry off some dusty prayers, and giggle `till the party ends.
-Volition is a wise step, Chips, dont be fooled by its subtle
murmur.

Chips Neil was a young ruffian,
Carried a warm, disarming charisma in his darting smile;
The type of lad to fend for Himself easily.
And there he went, down some slick shaft,
Before anybody could talk some practical advice,
Or grab him by the boots.
It pummeled him momentarily,
Ceased when the slippery tyke bordered on regurgitation,
And then threw him into the open space.

A tranquil division between the layers of space-time,
An artists conception of divine tranquility;
Spacious, hollow equanimity.

One such inclined bear lay himself down by the soft hilltop,
By the full moons lazy ponder,
Satisfied;
Full of poignant memories and silly thoughts.
An intense beauty streaming down his sleeping cheeks,
Remembering good holidays in the mountain air,
101
When the new world was being born,
And formulated;
Now, pulling suddenly at his heart while he slept.

Eagerly awaiting by The Shitters Rock,
Chiperely Dumbo lay flat-backed and motionless,
Dancing in the unseen world with the endless sky.
Why are we here?
A puzzled wave of glances swept the hardened group,
In search of the perfect animal, I thought.
Me too.
Me too.

A firework display by the beach-combing water-lilies,
Woke in a wallop all who were dreaming,
Such a dangerous and foul undertaking.
Have we gone too far?
`I need to learn more.
Save me from the pain one more time, Alabast.
We must go on.

Headway was gained in the passing wee-hours of mornings
inter-galactic dawn,
Going on a tender hunch,
The nasty brutal squadron sprung suddenly into vivid LIFE.
A sweltering relief brought about,
By an unexpected ringing in the deep silence of cavities still,
And empty.
Once again, to dispose of servility,
Quandary eonecks when the badill sapphire eased a weary
turmoil.

"

After months in the Earths intestines,
A breakthrough came at last.
As chance and luck would have it,
The sands became more coincidental,
Every grain a speaking ambassador,
With a message from futures yet to be revealed.
And thus,
A ginormous flat body of water exploded into existence,
Filling every gap and crevice in the uterine dome.
A silver lake with broad, fertile banks,
On the edges of the alien world.
102
Where would this pool lead them?
Into the abyss,
With prurient mandibles exorcising guillotine excess,
Whenever laylord was caught ontop of the blue buildings faux
scaffolding,
The prescient thing being, of course,
Her lack of marriage potential.

In the tender afternoon moments, everyone collaborated,
Worked with body and sinew,
To build a small fleet,
Which was needed to cross the charismatic liquid.

Around, from the slow breathing forest,
They gathered wood,
And all example of exotic materials.
The bulk lumber was hauled,
With heaving arms and chests magnified,
Bodily torsion a must when tracking precious elements.
Heaped into sand castles where, with a fine esoteric string called
Laila,
All those sweaty boxes were arranged in constructive patterns,
And labeled boats, floating transporters.

Memories of the speaking mammals,

(they visited the campsite at night, gave to the group vital
magic;
one wonders how their dreams gained strength,
maybe extracted from the lake by which they rested)

Were carved into the side panels,
Days spent engraving meticulously every wonderful detail from
their mammalian pasts.
The calming effect was truly palpable,
And even in their sleep, the creations kept manifesting,
Beautiful wooden enchantments.

The smell of fresh pine on the husky breeze,
Blowing through my hair,
And my body feels at ease,
Attention to the alphabet,
Where tension melted from my ten tired tents,
Making slack the ropes upon my soul,
And once again, I breathe.
103

Deep balloon breaths folded inside each quivering flap,
Upon the lung dynamo an exquisite satire of exchange and
refusal.
Taking huge gallons of sweeping oars,
Impetus paddling down the dry pebble bank,
And into the morbid stone blue lake,
A feverish calm descended, like some gallant shadow,
The gills of whales tampering with them at the bottleneck eddy,
Plunging;
Rendering any escape futile.

From below the thin surface,
Penetrating tons of cold water,
A haunting music could be heard echoing, and bouncing,
Cavorting scary melodies,
An equinox divine inside the huge basin,
Sweeping sounds peeling the full spectrum in a gluttonous
haunt.

Reminds me of cold shivering mornings and hot baths.

In the time when my underwater fantasy was being developed,
I would love to go imaginary,
Shiny under the bottle of a knife.
Ranting fantasies about speaking to crustaceans,
And sitting on the bottom of the sea,
Watching vapid snow storms up above,
Through the giant water panorama.

Id love to be dead for a day.
How good would it be?
How soft the perilous extract.
However razor-sharp Id be,
Always instrumental in the battle for winning,
A discretion opposed to silence,
And all things which may get you somewhere better.

The Utopia of Vivaldi,
An earth running strange and infinitely shaped roads to the sun,
Mapping the starry atmosphere,
All while marinating my veins in cod liver oil.


In the ethereal physical realm,
104
Ever-changing like the spirit of fire,
The endless flames of creation,
Licking cold seasons from hither to some place yet untouched;
By observers tentacles.

By stilling and lowering the thought frequency,
I bet one could devour the universe proper.
One would need to collaborate indefinitely with priceless
cruelties,
Elsewhere, subtleties revenging upon thee,
A mass hysteria of love and panic,
Dust and water,
Silk and diarrhea ,
Pools of vomit,
But wait, the sun is shinning once again upon my face,
And I can stop, to listen,
And to make myself a bed where I can rest,
My tiny silver body.

Healing you, exactly like the paper cups mentioned.

The deep thud answers questions,
And points tomorrow aching battery.
Upon the oily surface,
A deep and mysterious coincidence,
Fully coming into view,
Murmuring and making me cry.
Fishtails bumping into each other,
And sending ripples pulsing underneath the homeward bound.
Please let me go.
Cut me loose.
The pity overwhelming a built-up sorry,
Nothing of me inside those specter clean indifference to
dispassion,
And an absolute nothing for which I long.

Our bulging desolation wrapped in a meat toast,
The cacophonous rampage;
A blur.
Beaten overhead with flax seeds,
Do goodbye alone in the haunted wilderness,
I would say to one little nectarine after another,
be a juicy goodboy; love your daddy.
Wandering forever upon the velvet blue sky,
And wishing only for the sky to be.
105
I wonder from whence the next shellac will forfeit a benjamin,
Boiling two brown stones in the bubbling vortex.
`Ai, ai, arsenic was my chemical guardian,
Dont you know.
Eggs for Easter, tape for Spring,
A whistle from the dying grains of coal;
Upon a fire in the woods,
Perpetual motion of icicles,
And singing caves to whom I am drawn,
With swift feet and a soft melody in my heart,
To pleat the perfect braid.
To the cushions!!!

To oversize my bloodclot beauty,
And never again,
To find.

A definite conclusion to the overdying day,
Those pink smears over there,
Could they be part of the Clasp Careforme?

All were stunned and wildly throttled,
As if from somewhere beneath the lakes smooth came,
A new breed of longing,
To search the underplanet for more,
For now had come to challenge them.

An island upon the horizon planted,
The planet for a moment staved,
An empty feeling ran its icy fingers,
Up and down their hollow spines,
As if to say, `dont forget to remember.

As they gathered closer, closer still,
Paddling straight, riskless,
Tomorrow could bring with it a brand of swelter,
Their gazes quickly fixed upon the wishing tree.

Jumping from their boats,
Onto a ground like none before had trampled readily,
As close to the skin of corrugated spools of fish eggs,
As any of them had seen.
A kind of sweet aroma was present there,
Cloaked downwind and extremely pleasant,
The mild sun brushing their heads with a warm file,
106
And for some odd reason,
Everybody sat themselves quietly around the little wishing tree,
Totally engaged.

`Wish upon me, shooting star,
Upon the falling leaves and passing sands,
Of this island I was born and captured,
Stressed within my embers,
Cradled in the crevices of my tingling bark,
Whatever you may want, Ill give,
The graces of my heart of wood,
Know not of limits,
Only the world that never ends.

Its a magical world filled with obscenities,
A horrific black place of immense beauty a thought,
Passing like some etherized language,
Upon the snow-capped terribillis,
A mantle of spectacular depth,
Inside each bead of subtle thought.

I wish to be free from all anxiety,
Like a ship set already faraway into distant lonely skies,
And endless bodies of flat water,
Skipping in dry triplets,
Like a winding flotilla of dappled pennies.
Selling shapeshifters;
Thats how you make money.

Inside the forbidden space,
- to end all rogue elements and pique the fire of lost
rememberance into the zone made subtle,
And evangelic;
For the going tear is lapped quickly here.

They made their wishes, one by one,
A frosting tapped the pillow sinew,
Down the gray-road snickers.
A pivotal moment,
The doing can,
Canning in the midnight swoon;
The fever counting lashes from her vile embrace.
An old crouching mystery was sending signals to the mire,
Faint, calculated thought experiments,
And the willow winery says best to get yer drunk together,
107
Before they make good food in bottles.
The seeds of great adventure;
A priority to look darkness in the muzzle,
And jump from your ramshackle plank.

One amongst them, Ernesto Boysenberry;
Virginal patience his only good point,
The somber eloquence of Ramsey,
Belching into the waters blue, the melody;
An ode to Hamilton Baxter.

And, Why have you come here, she asked,
Her bark lips as a rustic petal.
For me, to want to have something that I want;
That something being wanton.
Sometimes I feel its a waste of my mental prowess,
And sometimes I fantasize my death,
The destruction of the planet from within.
Id love to bore my torso into the core of the burning sun,
And annihilate its life in one monstrous act of aggression,
To destroy the Universe with my exploding soul.
I wonder what would happen if I could bleed myself
drybone,
And open the gates of my life energy to escape me,
Create a vacuum,
Just to see what would happen,
Fuck you all to death!!!!!!!!!
Thats how Id like to play it.

The Great Naturalistic Adventure,
A whittle seeking in the pardon that experience conjoins,
An aperture upon the steaming grass.
One night I spent bathed in the supple early summer night-
breeze,
Gently rolling over my skin through the open window,
And in the morning I was alive,
No anxious cloak to suffocate me,
The end escaped from a tiny blue-sky cloudlette,
And in the fantastic morning,
A base to start upon,
Upon me.

`You know, I think we all will get a fresh chance soon.

I looked upon the cards anew,
108
The thick deck my only safety in this dangerous sea.

The waves around them began to rock,
And from the depths of this once placid lake,
There came a bad-breath omen.
Two socks, tangled,
Taped and tranquilized,
No names,
Just writhing with wet prayers.
Upon each sock an emblem,
With gliding white whiskers,
And green velvet eyes inside his black delicate head,
A snipped bushy tail,
And white lionesque paws;
Beholden in this wet woolen vessel,
It was Pico,
The Cat Wizard to be exact.
His most powerful majesty,
Upon sandy socks he lay.

One by one, the members of our underground gang,
Approached the tiny morsel,
Fearful at first, and cautious tender.
How could it be this great sorcerer be trapped within two
socks?

I was swimming one day in the ocean,
And gaze I did upon a pearl,
To become sandwiched between two rays of sea-salt was its
fate,
I thought, and dove to free it quickly.
I pushed and pulled,
And gargled water,
Surrounded tight in the blue pool,
I unleashed this magic to loosen you.

And all along the wet corridor,
A symphonous, overwhelming blanket of sound,
Did fall onto the little pearl.
With vibrations and finger-rattling,
The gem was ousted.
In a sparkling moment,
Pico held in his paw the Lady Queen,
His eyes thrown upon her,
And the magnetism pulled him in.
109
They floated there for a while,
In an embrace,
In a delicate penchant for pretty things,
And things left alone on a reef,
Under the water.

Go where you will be forever,
Going for miles with the breathless tide.
But Pico, so enchanted,
Didnt see, or feel (as it should be),
Approaching fast towards him, the terror,
Socks,
A web of folly.
And so entrapped he became,
This meaningless evil,
Cast upon his tangled fur,
A floating sock demon,
To suck him nether,
Enmesh its victims in wool and powder,
Stunned,
He dropped his precious pearl.

I lost her down the canyon,
And in this prison I sailed for days,
For weeks,
For the rest by my laced forest,
Forgetting to find me.
But I didnt forget,
And I was found again,
Washed upon this shore.
I needed you to look upon me, Simon,
To break this spell and set me stable.
And here I am, before you all,
It opened up some kind of wild chemistry inside me.

Born Again!!! roared Pico,
His small limbs,
A tired vexation thrown off with terrible definity
He could dance again,
The stupendous rigmarole with an allure all its own,
Once again blessed to wrestle your panties.

From the catacombs they watched him paw the Holy Ground,
Some ancient tits upon him,
A fatty-miser indigo,
110
Yet gigantic grew his feline haunches.

He turned,
With eyes and purring,
Glowing bristle,
Ill take you there,
Climb aboard.
And they all did,
Clung to his coat,
BEHOLD, PICO THE FLYING CAT WIZARD!

Are you the perfect animal? asked Briony,
Trembling, mitch-matching her million dollar puzzle.
He didnt reply,
Just took them further inwards,
Upon his giant fur vehicle.

`There is no magic where were going,
So say goodbye to your dreams,
I am the one who stood on the corner,
And watched all the better get best.

A stroke of geniune upon his part,
The fast sorcerer knew they wanted to find the center of the
world,
The vortex centrum,
The axis mundi,
Alpha totale;
But wait,
Yon soon to discover the source of breast,
Soon to tell us all the way to go.

Cool it man, I think he really knows the way.
His fur be shabby, smells of turtle dust,
Yet somewhat good to feel to be atop it.

Snaking, in and out,
Around and through,
The many caverns of the Tunnel Labyrinth,
I sense eyes upon me,
Seeking some trivial opening,
To flatter and redule.
Ive been down these caves before,
But this time I want to see it for myself.
Meet you in the end.
111

Pico closed his brilliant diamond eyes,
And chanted, purring to summon from the deepest drills,
A power racing now to meet them,
But first he had an appointment with Punto Dracula.

Proof to know when best be solid,
And quaint, Ill fool the devils mess,
Striken past the flood-gate siren,
Study patiently, a zest.

`Put your paws here please, gestured Punto,
Beads of scarlet daiquiris clotted his cape,
Beautifully.
`Ive been left with a butchered station, Pico.
Been here much too long,
I long to saddle you and take me away,
Thats why youve come, isnt it?

-I need you to tell me where it is-

Over the clouds,
Flying straight damsel,
With both wind and tallow sorting mystery,
Eventually to propel you,
Over Seers Cliff,
Make a mistake at Two Ponds Islet,
And serene to the Jimitty Creek.
There, by foot,
Ill guide you.

#

A horny young man, walking along a mountain chain,
`With God Ill suppose to be a great explorer,
Explore the mysterious goings-on inside of me.
Stop to ponder who came first,
The gimmel or the evergreen?
Cool, hand to evaluate,
And precisely for that reason I shant try a second longer.
All the more for the rest of them,
I guess.
Peace and sanity,
Drool and favors,
The toxic foolishness that slides towards me,
112
Ill push it away.
Enough of your nefarious nonsense.

My skin would double-back.
better a wife to beat then some sunshine to get bolted from the
sky.
Eat my words,
And suppose Ill retire to a cottage in the suburbs of Brookside,
View Ridge vista by the Valsano Narrows,
Ill go bald and jerk myself in and out of frustration,
And then Ill be really, really, really fucking close.
Ill grow tomatoes in my closet,
And rewind tapes for a living,
Whack a sandwich here and there,
And sleep for hours in the day.
Poof to sweet moments of swearing,
And wearing doughnut smiles,
For miles and miles.
I love to eat hot fruit pie with cold cream,
How delicious to have sweetness in ones life,
How terribly awful to have it denied.
Lest the soccer-pool beneath me gives,
I will not let the pilot land,
A plane of fur was flying through the sky.

High at the pinnacle of hope,
With Punto at its helm.

Hey, look down there you bastards
Hey kids, I see it beneath us,
In the distance, do you see?

Oh Pico, could it be?

Let us approach it closer.

All through the world they had searched for it,
May now their journey end?

From the Land of Jordan, Liberia, Turkmenistan,
Ethiopia, The Pashtun Steppe, Glorious Scissors
For our darkness displeased us,
And we were converted to you,
And light was made.

113
Deep calls unto deepin the voice of your floodgates,
I see a Mountain made of Iron,
Solid to the core.
Be still, come closer,
Upon your flying wizard cat.

And so Pico hovered,
Dwarfed to a tiny blip,
Utter restitution,
And take us to the blow-hole.
Just like on Easter Island,
When the Neptune colors came praying down the stone
warriors,
Like a God-send fireball,
The earth colors melting into the liquid pavement,
And narrowly missing the Derby Crown.

I have a very excellent suspicion,
As though were being brought by drag-queens into Cinders
Palace.

In the Carpathians,
I hunted reindeer with my weak ventricle.
Unfold and be,
Blastula and cellular triumph,
To land-lock blastomere,
And gallop in victorious salute to the Hemlock Haven.
Tonight our dreams fulfilled?

Careful Pico, gestured Punto,
Beware the forcefield all around,
`Tis great metallic core has frequency,
Vibration,
Could tear us open,
Bring us down.

And so, with careful flight pattern,
And smooth descent,
Pico landed,
On the grass,
A gentle skip was heaven-sent.

At night they laughed by roaring fire,
Made sleeping pens from Picos tail,
By the foot of the mountain they would think and recall,
114
Their journeys past,
A history not small.

`Do you remember the Prehistoric Forest,
When Kenny leaped from Manaus,
And fizzled in the Crozet Basin.
All were silent for a while,
Some homage for a lost searcher.

`Under the Gulf of Aden,
I fought with beetles from Mumbai;
They built their city in the 6
th
crustal layer,
Most endangered how they battled with crural deception.
`Giant enchanted trees of the Somali Basin,
In Victoria, where that mandrake nearly bit off all the
Mascarene;
I cried a little that night,
I thought we were all gonna be done.
But lucky for us,
The Agulhas rescued Peter,
With smoke sculptures and fake veins.
`Devil put the palate underneath Antarctica,
Where the Ice Christmas Reign was tellyouwhat when we
arrived.
`God Lordy that ice elephant took us for a frozen dinner,
Into caves and dank terraces.
Upon the frosty mammoth we made `till Amnesia,
Whimpering when Southe Sandwiches cracked and crumbled,
Intimate with the Falkland Ridge,
And I bet he would have lasted longer,
If the lavar didnt heat him;
Melt you to a wet puddle.
`That night,
When the ghost of Michael Carmichael zest did appear,
From the Far Greene diamond mill,
Driving a gleaming silver sportsmachine,
Erupting from beneath a stealth rogue-vault,
All the while taking wisdom from the Book of Energistics.
I am the Prince of Prices,
Armed under my belt with The Adventures of Slutty
McPhadden,
I come to find the answer to a question;
Is there a cure for athletes?
`In the deep recesses of California,
We heard them speak:
115
-Who alone can inherit the Magnum Centri,
Upon the shadow of a doubt,
Upon a speck of thought.-
To dwell in the devils bowels for many years,
Searching,
Trying to trace a path,
Toward towhat we seek.

Let us rest,
The words of Punto were accepted with calm happiness,
And our silent gang did snuggle tight,
By the side of a grassy knoll.

The night was warm by the huge mountain,
And as they drifted, one by one,
Off to the land of lullabies,
Pico sang to them a dreamy tune:
OOOOOh, Leeeee, H..ulo, KEeeeeee

They shared one dream,
Walking by the ocean at night,
Deeply in love with the smell of warm stars,
Spangled across a flat canopy,
And talking of ones beautiful, restful,
Fearless future.

Do well to dream., hovered Pico,
And curled beside them,
While Punto kept a guardful watch,
He feared a Solstice Invasion.
The Prophecy clear:
A million hordes of damned billionaire when Sambo reached
the center of the Universe.

But no great war did come that night,
And in the morning, fresh and clear,
They packed and climbed on Picos back,
To fly them to the Tunnel Sphere.

They flew up the mountain,
And soared through clouds at dizzying speeds,
Unhampered by a flock of starlings enjoying the morning
race.
At such great height,
They could see past oblivion,
116
Into the giant cauldron,
Where tiny creatures lived and fought.

And then they were there,
At the opening to a hole in the ground;
To take the group to missions end.

Oh Pico, thank-you!, Miss Sandow wept,
And you as well Punto.

I must leave you now.
Farewell,
Down there you go and find.
And with two brash snippets of his whiskers,
Pico flew away.

And as for Punto,
I must stay, he said,
I have my own search to find,
The Crepes of Anticosti are alone tonight,
Punto, lets go!!!

Well, what are we waiting for

They plunged on down it,
Ten tender smiles fixed on their mugs,
A little longer in the tunnel,
And out you come with poppin might.

I wonder who wrote me into His travels,
Would I be the owner of selfish rights,
If ever a faint would drift to sea.
Corner me in a dish,
Let be the consolidated ego of thrice the passion,
Tip-toe to my door.
Bourgeois derelicts hanging in the street,
The beef with directory a foregone forlorn.
Spank the ivories one more time,
And kiss me fully on the mouth,
My darling I beseech you,
Remember what is ours.

As the hours passed,
Riding through the tunnel,
117
To buzzkill we arrange to keep your eye on the cellophane
dot.
OUTPOPME!!!!!!!!!!!

There!!
Were here at last,
I feel the weight of worlds below.

And out they came from the grungy spiral,
Sprang from hither doldrums,
They looked around,
At fair grounds,
Still evenings by the pond.
What is this place,
I remember,
Some familiar scent.

Oh no, it cant be,
Please refrain from this recurring bane.
Could we be here again?

Indeedit was true.
Ten desperate faces,
Standing in the same spot,
Where years before theyd rappelled down ropes,
With golden hopes,
Stepped on ladders,
Seeping into the innards of the world.

Upon Lac Bienville,
Casting frozen eyes toward the Belcre Isles.
`tis worst death,
To be stuck,
Without air,
With no warm quilt to shield me from the icy breeze.
My sorrowful case,
Such agony to think of the wasted years,
Projecting a hellish future,
To see it come alive.
I feel such deep pain,
Like a magnet `pon my soul,
Stretching the very fibers which hold me together,
Slowly tearing them apart.
My mind I would lose,
Locked inside this rusted cage,
118
Were it not for a voice,
A faint yet startling chorus,
Inviting me to lift my shoulders,
And breathe once more a breath.

`Where is it, is it, is it!!??!

We followed all the signs,
We marched down all the hallways,
And now we stand and sigh.

The Perfect Animalwhere are you now?

Sleeping by the fire?
Alone in a mountain cave?
Shepherding a hillside of geese?

Lets throw ourselves from this steep embankment,
And end it all in one great signal.

Hey you guys, wait!!!....I think I know.

-What, she knows?
-Wait, over here!
-She knows where it is!!
-Lord Jesus, over here.
-Hey everyone, come!
-Fuck!!!

Poor hunters,
Tears rolled into little drops and tiny rivers,
Chasing down channels through the valleys of a face,
All came gathered round Mad Alice.
Upon their knees,
Arms shaking like twigs at the bottom of Fall,
Begging for her to speak.

Please Alice, please.

But something strange then passed on through them,
As if a light be shinning bright,
They looked to Alice for the answer,
With miracle eyes,
Such bruised delight.

119
And she,
With pebble grin upon her lips,
And twinkle in her mermaid eyes,
Just stared,
Blanks,
Trailing the beautiful baby moon,
Somewhere past the smooth horizon,

I think I know now.








120