The beauty of comatose can only be seen through the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle peeling bananas and kicking prayers farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall, with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins, eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton through the daze of California cannabis and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin, where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature, as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.