A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.

Puzzling and cryptic
Quite an unpredictability
Bizarre and eccentric
This is such a mystery
Filled with suspense and darkness
Such an unclear scenery
A clouded situation appears
That is a peculiarity

orchids,
alien and other worldly.

beauty,
bordering the grotesque and bizarre,
strangely exhilarating.

variations,
wild and uninhibited,
even orgiastic,
of a mind, as if,
not of this world;
shapes and sizes,
folds and spirals
colours and colourations.

at times,
more animal or insect,
than flower.

if a rose is Mozart,
an orchid, Stravinsky.

No people can handle this ****.
Barely those who lives through this.
All purpose seems the life in flesh;
Is horrid at its best.
A twisted sitcom show.
That’s no less then cruel jokes.
many times in deepest holes.
eyes glorify the rope.
Or mind glorifies rope.
Who knows anymore.
One realizes loneliness is where the sick is born.
One realizes loneliness is how aching hearts shall mourn.
Yet again these thoughts of red,
beg that one please will tend.
With sharp swords and gore.
Of Blades piercing flesh
Of sharp swords and gore
until limbs be torn.
Surgical mesh be drenched.
This stomach is so sore.
Destruction absorbed.
Self infliction is adored.
........................................
in that wretched mirror.
It is so crystal clear.
This face  needs disfigured
This face needs to be Seared
An urge to burn the face,
as well as to cut.
Perform practices precise.
To tame the craves;
for blades
that thrusts.
Fugly as the ugly duckling.
If his feathers he began plucking.
repulsive ravishing disgust.
Spit at reflections for good luck.
Anger and vile succumb as it does.
In all ways that it can be done,
This self harm now one knows and loves.
Black seems white feathers of doves.
...........................................................
Insi­de black demented places.
Lurk do entities of hatred.
Laugh in masks like a masterpiece painted.
Unfazed as if one is sedated.
Forever this chaos.
in pureness created.
Dead be these roses.
in violet vases.
........................................................
To remain cloaked in magic states.
Still many strife always remains.
At times it seems the blind are divine.
Dilated be these eyes.
Shall needles pierce eyeballs to disdain.
Urning to spray the eyes with mace.
Keep the hArd drugs in the brain.  coursing through collapsed and thin veins.
Keeping the *** from being laced.
Without intoxicates still insane.
Only hopelessness and endless pain.
At a young age came,
demented strange days.
Paranoid in fear;
With destructive paths near.
malevolent demeanors have now appeared.
......................................................
For so long felt so helpless.
Life in all forms is selfish.
As despair impairs.
One becomes more selfless.
Remain thy light in darkness black.
While psychosis viciously attacks.
Crack back
Owning a craft.
Obsessed with knives and plastic wrap.
Unorthodox ways.
Leaving blood that rains.
Up for many nights and days
Owning a craft.
This world is sad
left perception oh so mad.

A lizard's tail,
dew in the night.
Ambrosia from the gods.
A drop of a
mermaid's tear.

This is Floccus Magni.

Shadows of the dead,
harrows of the living.
Joys of the darkness,
terrors of the light.

Let's entangle ourselves in lace.
While you leave trails of swelling bliss.
When all seems lost, it can be found.
I'm crazy because of the dead silence.

The sun and its veil drags along the humdrum path, like an old dog’s broken tooth, lodging itself into a decrepit chair. Right up its ****; where it belongs and longs to be loved. It suffocates, coagulates, and discombobulates the bowery citizens within the pearl atolls. By the rims of the gates, Moses receives ******* while a sojourning sheik blasts the radio. Meanwhile, the teats of Atlas are duly pounded as the mortals are aroused and grounded. Never beholden to ecumenist beauty, life lives on, defying questions. It festoons its lexicon of self-defeat and the synonyms that we waste sun on; A halcyon is redacted before long. I am left at the teeth of a sycophant and a broad-shouldered man who I adore in dangerous elan. Epigrams foist themselves upon the masts, the masts that sail us o’er the soot of the ocean, and land us flippantly onto the crystalline concentration line which is a-gaping wide.
The orifice of a primordial awaits us.

Beings with trunks for ears, duct tape for eyes, and nozzles for digits…… Oh, what horror is this? I do not dream of the world anymore, just the rotten carcass of my amygdala. Suchasmall space to wade through…. so cold, yes? Coconuts falling down pants, with pinstriped sections separated by a ragged burlap fur. Googly eyes, slick and shiny, privy in decadence. A skinned raccoon goes soulless in splendour as it receives ******* from a malnourished Mickey Mouse. Corkscrews enter the ears.

“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”