I
Wonderlandia, torn off the submerged lung
of a daydream diary. Reoccurs
as she does with silver eyes, weary Alice
during tea time--bullets burning past her
like flowing nations.
Everyday similar tsunamis fund
the lack of 20/20.
Nose to tail--the surge of angry engines
splits the ends of her blonde strands.
Each one the last witness to maddening hospitality
--utopia never sweats as it talks and withers.
Amnesia blots,
new aspirin machines
vaporize apples and ***
on the other end of spectrum,
trans-positional labels--
Guillotine gargling teapots
have no patience
to the bushes of Olympus opiates
bound in yellow barrier tape,
five o' clock traffic
welcomes her back to what we are facing.
II
Dreary weather of late fall and her beautiful,
powdered face
great mouth of atomic hell,
when she speaks--80,000 deficiencies boil alive
--Trinity's teething test
on the tired bones
of a story-teller's raspy cards--
"None the wiser," she speaks,
"during the transition of ships
vermin turn into krakens culturing
on the surface of a raindrop.
Heroes, villains, animals frozen together
after now eating for four days.
The transition of one genocide
to the other,
the delineation of cat-and-mouse,
mingle too long
with the dead
and its necrophilia."
Blind Alice wanders off the highway,
leaves her brewed cup of steamy static
on top of the unimportant saucer, sticks pins in her *******
and enjoys the sound of Cleopatra
rolling over in reincarnation.
III
Dear Alice smells
sunbathing, studded tangerines
assimilating liquor within the vast,
empty, glowing nausea that is--
the warm germ
Oil and water
rippled glass too silly for skulls
made humid by distant salt water,
blood, acid, enzymes,
cheating probability
that runners with drunk kids
have blood between their toes.
Death to the distillation within
--the chronic diamond too polished
in *** to see the roses in her *****
She curses these wood songs,
heritage patriots with the pelts of wild lions
with antlers over their heads,
faces advertising war paint
applied by gargoyle hands
--sad memoirs always drink people
that use God as a cookie jar.
IV
Gorgeous names
on graffiti institutions give her a home
a market
a nickname
still Alice only accepts Alice.
Grace periods where she misses tyranny
rise and fall like endorsed breathing.
Now Alice feels her dress fall off,
extinct years message future occupancy
about what to wear.
New era, this era, past eras plead guilty
in a clinic museum
of forcing demons
down the medical
throats
of first graders. Court adjourns at 9:01 PM, Saturday
The populus can sleep now,
but not her.
No one gave her clothes
to cover up the drained monochrome.
V
Instead she celebrates her flesh,
the broken glass,
and quakes and leads off to expose
others to its potential vital prosperity.
Instead
headlines like bumper cars read
about the beheading of weeks,
failing rescue missions,
and debates on teenage tolerance.
Nicotine intoxication points Alice
to over-extended memories--wards of music
sequenced to point out the extinction of marble tigers.
Only 550 expected to understand
tethered to millions able to survive.
Flood waters look at moral standards, a mean hurricane
that collapses the death toll
all patented 50 states
have a dating service
and huff paint as a way
to pray to art.
Double-canvas faces
dyed in pixel hope
that the media levees hold,
but volunteer to herd sheep into poppy seed fields.
She refuses to stay,
to watch the long night
of castration on men with mud-covered ankles.
Television says eunuchs want
to be prodigal's children,
everyone wants to come back home
to mom and dad, safe zones, away
from themselves.
It says our ancestors want
this for all of us. They worked
so hard to tie up the hair
out of Aphrodite's face.
They treasure the silver eyes of Alice,
but call them blue,
they issue her high cholesterol
but pump sweet ****** into he stomach,
they tell her to put down the drill,
so she can finish their orchestra--
her lightning
is
a
string
of
souls
VI
She decides to depart Sunday,
to discover the ordinary beginning,
painting WHY? on its delirium.
re-arrangeable viewers become
inserted sounds under percussion and piano.
Caging various important charts
undetermined
as finished attention.
Three movements in flux
open end the people vacuuming
craftsmanship blocks
from dogs and zen.
The
suspended letter is happening in 1951
drenched in existential white spacing
the viewer
from integrated architecture.
Down
the
bell is a structure called
"the quarantined wheelchair."
Dead ignorance changes pattern
after six movements of the second hand.
Alice speaks, "To you all, know
that this is an un-dramatic situation.
Everyday windows with the same
participants have girls drinking
orange juice, activate fluid,
both exist as objects
and caught propaganda."
Six tunnel
audiences are watching
drown in the plastic silk
her built by the motorized collage
spider.
Alice, a kinetic mannequin pop star
is limp in the glass point.
Rhythmic flux is objectified war torture
censored in fitness magazines
by simple toilet literature.
Six tunnels worth of eyes
latch to the *******
as a way to bury **** protesting.
A coat of pepper spray
works in front of the exhibition.
This stage is shaded by moans.
VII
Alice the female, has a door-to-door friend
over the sea
of the cathedral's ceiling who died of disemboweled
pulchritude at the mutilated nuclear other-place.
Her friend was a synthesized example
of staged catastrophes. Her friend is her, silver-eyed
Alice.
She performs herself and herself
but they are played by polished, scored poets.
Everyone of them incorporates the events
of a dancing gunshot. Everything rests
at an intermission
but after fifty minutes of pondering,
the lost audience remembers
her name is Alice.
So it comes back on with a shower of sweat
and this clear
substance
called
patience.
This composing, peering vulnerability
psychologically destroys the flux tension
like analog genocidal dictators.
Ultimately this is dream liquor
commentating war to the war tree
using trauma and chairs as humor.
VIII
Patience on the water level lives translucent
on networks that brand flesh
with displaced identity.
Alice convinces us all that pickled ***
takes eight years
to ****** and we accuse it
of being fake. Afterwards, her character dies
in confident silence.
IX
Not majestic, but she does cough
to mock the earth.
The seeds of Alice are ripe,
harvested early, and now her children come out and dine
like speaking tongues on gibberish.
The room is fat with hair
and kindness. Feeble, mundane hands chew on each other,
feet stand proud.
We even call her Alice or "the beautiful *******
a black cloud feasting
in orange."
Everyone feasts on the nectar
she has, but never the rye
which makes her round. Juice is squeaking and her children laugh
as in competition.
It's a distinguishable game as the mixed
couple up front
begin to play whistles as
everyone eats
the pride of the silver-eyed Alice's children.
X
The children's souls
bow and say
"Thank you for barely growing."
and dissipate after five minutes.
"Curiouser and
Curiouser" they
say as
they leave
this homage.
The decimal backbone
of each of sweet Alice's
blonde strands
divorced by the gust/ of a green light's/ allowance.
XI Epilogue
The day crawls away
a vigilant pest
of the nocturnal project
--suns beam down still, like
stomachs of grinning felines
at Valentine's day.
toxic-dyed fingers
soldered
to bodies pittering across rainy streets
--legionnaires with hearts on stones
we are waiting for her orders,
thistled-teeth clench,
but did she
actually
ever come?