You hanged yourself from a palm
on a desert island
Starved for weeks
Catching flies in the cave
that hung open
in your mouth.
Swaying in the wind
And saw a series of the most
beautiful sunrises
which you paint in my sleep
every night when you come
to visit me.
Telling me all that you know
of the habits of flies
while the new ones,
those kids,
dance around my breathing nose
and settle in my gums.
All waiting to hatch
to get a glimpse of that sunrise
their parents dreamt of.
-overandover.
andoveragain.

It's the way we cut off our heads
in trying to lose it,
throwing it in the river,
but are so consumed with curiosity
with what we will become that
we find ourselves still stuck
at the rivers edge,
trying with all our might,
to watch where it goes.

My mind keeps trying
to find my soul.

But when its distracted
and forgets to look
it finds it while absently watching the trees barely uncaringly grow
so slow.

If you look upon me,
from above or from below,
being swallowed at all ends
by a gang of thirsty serpents,
then understand that in my eye
i am shaking in a trance
and am only dancing with
my fellow dancing snakes.

HAHAHA

If you watch me
from in the darkness of my closet
which you've wandered into,
not knowing that I have left its door cracked open for you
for the curious candle light
of my small stadium to peer into,
and you unblinkingly catch me
while you're caught in the act
of pouring my body
into a cup
crafted from a piece
of my frozen soul
which I have extracted
from the contents
of the cup itself,
drinking and gargling and giggling while joyfully singing
of the sorrow that the light has while it has to watch,
with nowhere else to go,
then know that my mind
is the light
while I crumble under the comedy
that is its glow.

AHH HAA HAA
HAA HAA HAA HAAA

We are a connection
turned in on itself.

It leaves everything that it brings.

The fornicating black hole
giving birth to itself
is nothing
but the brilliant
uselessness
of any song
that god sings.

Let us sing.

I'll be the bed of wasps.
You be the dreams
of our *** and our dances
nourished and guided by stings.

We are a village in East Africa
praying for rain in our mind,
and that is where it rains.

Washing the paint from our soul
we can't tell each other apart.

Meditate for several centuries
after sleeping and dying
in your dream.

Wake up in another life.
Waiting for each other.
To love again.

The seagulls fly in and out of each other extracting biological trash from their Fake Plastic bodies