Wednesday, April 1, 2009

would that be blasphem-be?

(is there a highest form of love?)
...she awoke to call me a
classical greek tao-rist!
that i fucked God in the mouth and i with my new headdress danced like conception.
i am the south wind. i am moving through you.
that is until i grew old as shadow, as a prayer of protection waltzing to the e.a.r.t.h.
bowing as a petition, limbs in the dirt.
And on the hour i sang songs i believed,
i slept and knew my new life had been a dream
every ex-seamstress followed me there and
fashioned me new existential caps
(THAT is why you keep your little lovers in your lap.)
i've put out your future fire with my tears.
And i was so happy sappy that i
tried out her math. tourists, heads of a feather with
all of the calculus and conics
and the knowledge of a futurist
made of machineries, we walked and embodied seas of melting topography.
our corpses were sworn to
youth and our warm witnesses left our centers in a burst, during the nomenclature
of an effigy.
i have two faces, a real trickster,
are you brave enough, want to lie with me?
i count your worth in bravery
in terms of the number of scars opposed to your burns.


Pardon me, anthro-apology,
you are the dirty culture growing on the inside of my mouth (!!)
[that which is now, is me rubbing my slippery gum against the blank space, rolling the back of my lips over your notion and wincing my face.]
and like an airplane turbine swallowing,hard the wind
blow through me like lungs or a schizophrenic on the street who shouts for you to free your sin!
"Hey, humanity the end is NEAR."
Listen to the man, who speaks of satellite performed laser lobotomies,
he has multiples degrees and a Ph.D and he is trying to help your witness be free and he watched me

float, toes pointed through the aisles and I saw the end. It looked like a wall...made of two way glass.
and in terms of reincarnation I felt my recyclable self pass,
away. I left for an aeon.

When I woke I was gray crushed velvet, with balloons on my head and pumps on my feet.
Never had never smelled so much like oranges.
I had seen your nebula and starstruck I was
forever and ever
I was feeling your bandwidth-frequency
inside of me.

You are my interesting words. You grow out of my belly and talk about a libertarian brick builder's simplicity. Like
chickens and sons.
I made a pie for you today and baked it from scratches of etchings of the shape of nothings
and we gave it a name.
We called it a Fond Memory and ate every last bite.