Franz Xaver Messerschmidt sculpted his face
sixty times--an arcanum of flesh's malleable
appeals to a skull.
his: "Character Heads" yanked out in front of
a mirror's propriety, a natural madman
exceeding a chimp's ****** expressions.
the inverse catatonia of a pickled alien--
where colors don't clash.
Franz believed he was hunted by the:
Spirit of Proportion--due to his mastery of
sculpture, its punishable likenesses.
whose features' puff-**** brands ether with
magick, the idolatrized signal of rebellion.
his sixty: "Character Heads" were meant to ward off
this equalizer of art--sort of like how Vlad the Impaler
stuck countless decapitated heads on pikes, outside
his castle walls, to unnerve enemies.

twenty four caprices of lording fire--
a violin grabbing the horsehair of a bow.
brutal angulations, the muteness of
hollowed out release--keen to its own ear.
then multiplying fingers plucking at strings, as
if deviously imposing a riddle.
the karma sutra of incubi & succubi.
the idle thoughts of their prince, supping at
a decomposed apple--its tiny anuses sliding
out seeds.
while he looks up in ejaculatory boredom--
unable to live it way down.

a curved stony enclosure whose seawall gives
way to hulking cliffs--with chiseled ramparts
akin to bottom cuspids.
standing before foldable reflections--aside from
the accelerating interpolation of sea-clouds, prone
to negatives.
the guiding intelligence of a flood cupped by an
isle that is unmet with a return.
its interior of entryways are desolate modulators
of tides.
as the two main entrances to the isle set stone apart,
the first as ruggedly cut indicators--the second as
altar-immaculatus blocks.
its baselevel of algae--fed by browning runoffs of rain,
along cracks filled with ivy.
leading into cypress trees expecting late visitors, with
an adamance that gives an odd calm to the out-of-place.
though they unnaturally crowd & surpass their enclosure,
with a tingle of wildflowers anticipating them.
making a point of something, already at its most advanced
stage--withholding a shade solid enough not to have been
under a burning phos.
come the skewed vision of a boat, progressing in the way
of water.
the sea peering at the back of the void's head, as it's shone
upon.
the forward tilt of a boatman's oared tension--stiffly even
keel, with enough momentum to float to the isle.
the boat becomes sensationless...the figure in the white
shroud knows nothing else but what is about to transpire.      
as if Lazarus dazedly brought to his feet, remaining there
for all the world.
the only thing that the cypress trees can see, as take into
their shade the coffin.

an exhaustive compilation of

audio skips, left on replay in an

empty room.

would emptiness scramble for

that room--after the recording ends?

as if reflexively concealing itself from an

entity that suddenly emerged.

a sibilance that broke with no break.

its own recording picking up where the

recording ended.

the way stagnant water resembles a fish

out of water.

the seizuring digits of a grade school  

calculator, forgotten in a pouch put away

for storage.

as the half man/half butterfly morphosis of a Zen

master disturbs the meditation of his master's,

master.

being cut clear in half with his stick, through the

manicured flatness of sand granules retracing

their distinctive sounds.

while they adhere to its rigidity.

an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.

dungeonesque clanking, subterranean bass
shadowing his 6ft. nine in. horror-addled gait.
the bizarro treble of: decapitation/necrophilia/
dismemberment, introduce Ed Kemper to spaces
he lays comparative disproportion to.
neck like a Great Dane, drowsy bookish eyes
smeared behind circular glasses, decisive comb-over,
& walrus mustache.
his intelligence quotient test herded him where
geniuses reportedly dwell.
monstrously sidestepping from where things can't be
measured--murdering his mother & her friend, along
with six female co-eds (not to mention his grandparents
on a prior youthful conviction).
now imagine Ed, plain old Ed--taking a load off in a
soundless recording booth in prison.
clearing his throat & reading into a microphone--
hypnotically translating into a cavernous monotone.
jarring the listener to heightened attention with emphasis--
seventeen audiobooks were recorded by Ed Kemper for:
The Blind Project.
how ironical for such an elocution to bleed through--
in this way.