I'm under the clover,
don't you bother.
I've come alive,
hot under the covers.
Becoming clever,
this day of pallor.
Wolverine minds,
torn asunder.
I've got the wool and the apricot.
Nothing even phases me.
I try to be the man I was when I was
trying to grow a new skin.
I try to visualize a future that was never
to be, yet still to walk forward
with those lost memories.
Why are YOU even wondering
about the way I CRY?
There is no answer too good to use,
no whispered words,
in vain.
I look up to GOD
for the answers,
but HE is so very busy that the walls
of the structures collide.
The Gnostic vibrations
EQUALIZE
in unholy equilibrium,
and the shakes are rattles amplified
to Aboriginal beats
laid down.
Tap tap,
tap of the creatures loose in the City.
I write words HERE, while alone,
tapping on my screen.
Other words appear.
What is that, really?
What is instigating meta-communication?
Thoughts are energy, or what?
What is Lou Dallas but a concept in my electronic head
where electricity (vibrating quarks) spiral, what?
What are the words that crawl down pyramids
but a geometric strut psychic allegory?
What is seeing?
What is hearing a dripping faucet?
I have become Carnivore for the masses, their Champion of Meat.
Once seen, madness is shown to be Illusion.
Narrative fiction
that sinks away into the moiling earth.
Such honesty. Brutal poses
by models made of porcelain,
strident smiles,
mannequin smiles,
pasty and confused.
