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.”

Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”

I lose something in this home
I smile, you know? I smile with humans
No, that’s not it
I’m true when I’m hating my creations
And what is becoming of me

Oh, pity me bubbly
I’ll weep all the same
But it’s lousy
My concerns are lousy
Just a boy, a tinkerer
A boy
I’m lousy, man
Not pretty
Pretty lousy

Just hate myself. Purely. Sanctimoniously
Doctors were onto something
A grin introduces myopia
Lousy
Lousy concerns
I’m blessed; better by a margin, right?
I ought to hate meself with more pep in the step
And better teeth
God, I wish I didn’t look like this
How could you build me like this?

It’s funny, you know. I write about the cerebral complexities, those magnified things. I notice the film grains in my eye, but hey, I’m still a ***** to loneliness.
Man, you ought to be lonely!

The only difference between now and then is, that now I blame a God that I don’t believe in. I blame it and that for my misfortunes, the fact that luck is merely a word to me.

God, I want to die
Can you hear me? I seek it, I reek of it
I want to die
I’ve mulled over it with great wit and dexterity
I want to die
Stoicism
I want to die
It’s healthy; symbiotic
I want to die
So lonely
Wanna die
I just want to reach the zenith of the mind’s pataphysical eye, before
Before I die
Haven’t you heard?
I want to die
Cries for help are immature
I am not a child
I want to die
Oi, someone help, with this pulley! 
I want to die
John’s my only friend
At one point, he was quite alright with dying
He’s been gone for a while
And I want to die

By the 1960s, a disillusionment with Nationalism and war was permeating within the public consciousness.

Man: jazz. Jazz! Everything sounds like jazz when you lend your hears an oscilloscope. You know what j-a-z-z sounds like? Well, it’s sweet, serendipitous or nonsensical, nihilistic. Modern in stainless steel or anachronistic in brass. Jazz! So what? Jazz sounds like anything that’s everything and vice versa. It’s a limb of that omniscient looker up and over: the tune itself. Oh, the tune? It’s what lies between your fingers when you’re writing, forging, loving, giving, perishing. You strut with the frequency of a conduit, but an unaware one at that. A change is gonna come in mere years, I know that much. Everyone will be deloused in the pain of the world; Mother Sympathy for all, even the charlatans who hide behind their crimson fur! All I’m saying is, whoever brings it ought to be from this place. I can’t fathom a recalcitrant extraterrestrial handling our own business at the expense of their planet’s water supply. I’m excited for whatever comes, believe me. So long as it ends me and with me.

Music gives my eyes a tunnel and my mind the universe. This much I know and recite in verse- or, prose, well. However I may carry my words, they will do all frequencies a severe injustice. That is why I feel no need to describe the ether and the fluids that compose a tune. They simply are, anyone can perceive and dissect for themselves. The words, they serve to underline the story that an ear might not obtain from music. I aim to achieve a functional, symbiotic, conversational existence with these two chaps. One day, it’ll be great fun and my mind will sideflip its merry way through scrolls of papyrus and the speeches of lutes. Until then, it’s apparent and essential, necessary, to be trudging my forlorn way through the badlands of my cranium. Who knows? I may occasionally find myself an ardent hoodoo to comport my thoughts on. I will live for that and die for tomorrow. By increments, of course. I must believe that we’re not all imbeciles, here.

Page sticks to oneself; indentations upon indentations. Soon, it will all- or perhaps later?- it will all homogenize into a gestalt; a brain. Then, not long after that Exodus of the Neurons ™, the piece of wood will reanimate, shaking my hand and fishing for planets simultaneously, like any other sentient being that remains aware of the dome domain above us (or adjacent to?)
This is no performance, it is mere proof that my stimulant is optimal, that I breathe with vigour in my feet and weight in my fingers. It is a display of my gradual decay, foretelling the prognosis that I dare not utter: what can I do if I fall under Alzheimer’s heel? What then? Will I forget of the paragraph that I had just written beforehand? This pen, will it treat every word as a home to rest its riches in? This vagrant of a fool, he must remember his treads, the soles of the people that have led him to wherever he’s gone. What is the Joker without inspiration? What is a dancer without awareness? What is a figure without substance?