the plant paints naked women
in your eyelids
to lure you into
their mouth.

freedom is a hallucination.

what involves you
is decoy.

the enemy is benign.

passion is an object
which fills you,

making you
a carrier of
waste.

in a triumph there are chains

          connecting the mad-men
  from           cell       to        cell

  where the plants grow in the dank
  humid
  rot.

keeping men company.

keeping madness close.

keeping to themselves.

i live in a helicopter over the city

everything too ***** to land

i see crimes from here
and i dont care
who lives
or who dies.

i see horses running races.
winners resemble losers.

the ocean is sewage
the sand is termites
the streets are drains
draining the victims.

wives and families.

the people are bobbers
to catch goliath beasts
from underneath.

   they sell their bodies for *****
                       filthy
                      clothes.

to cover up
their shameful ashes.

deep down
they want what i want,

me and the goliaths;

they want to crash
and choke
and be eaten.

someone to set a fire
to clean up the mess.

a fire to clean itself.

the talking cactus

or the man who eats it;

which has the sanity?


        and the cactus,
             she speaks
               his life
               to  him
               in visions.

     tears from her eye
      mix with
      drool from his
            sagging mouth

   what is melted
     is neither soul nor sand.

"Many men go fishing
all of their lives
without knowing
it is not fish
they are after."

the dolls stare at me

waiting for me
to come to life.

but they dont know

im watching.

you can teach a man to fish
but you can not teach a fish to man.

he howl at the moon

bark at the sky
to keep it secret
from the sun