Tell me how you feel because I do not know how to act with respect to where you are in your own (nemesis head). We are. A definition placed on weak lips by a magician of sorts, whose own secrets are locked beneath the curling wandering roots of the ancient tree. To speak freely is a curse in a gift given by his spinning hands; to know the truth and to understand its implication. If only for once both me, and too the (I) in you could converse in free form with no barriers laid between by our long rotten ancestors, we could paint each other with our thoughts.

I can feel the sunlight on my back but it is the middle of the night. The psychedelic carnival with a circus of those purple zebras outside my window. What a marvelous din they make, the band of fools and actors, the gypsy woman's wonderful spell transgressing into the depths of my skull.

You are probably being too much.
The suddenness of a rattlesnake in a steel drum singing his little anthem for awestruck ant people.
The desert has the voice of a dead choir, and twisted containers of marmalade mean nothing to the twisted head.
A primate
Day-tripping burnt out flipped over and freaked-out, the groove kicks back in and the memory of a thing comes rising back from genetic recess, the cavern of slavish cells whose ancestors are the dust we breathe.

Baron Saturday
The Moon God sees these are fitting beasts.
There's a snek in my Jim nest and i'm fully chinned, laughing at
me the walk twist the key's own menstrual pattern.
Wander out of it's not time's own belonging to my neighborhood.
As I (in jest) myselve's own existing
contrary to bird law's bound booklet handed from headless
man on the subway, so it will become.

jumpin' in the turtle soup
Strumming on the gee-tar with a
thousand twisting rags
not here not here, you are the fool.

Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Between being too much and
saying too little,
and at the center of all of this
the core of what you know.
Peeled and glowing
radiation from the dimensional seeds.
Say too much, but too much is
all there is and you understand
that the sting of a disgusted or worse
sympathetic face
is not worth the freeing of
words that scratch your
throat and
pound their crumbling walls in the nemesis head for
freedom from the
human wall.

What an indescribable mess I have made myself into,
toppling over my own heels
falling over my feet in a spinning whirling whoop.
Can you hear the comical horns as I begin my descent?
Bulging pupils as I see myself
hoping not to bust into flame at the sight of you.
Carnivore my third glaring eyes is
(and yours too, I could imagine)
but lacking is the verbal commencement
the proclamation that is called for when doing such business
on this field of what there is.

A good thing afoot
In it's own way

I now know that I am composed entirely of paper and
wax, and the strings that hold my
body up on my paper feet are fastened with
knots to my heart.
And from the wax heart to your hands that twist the
strings about and my wax limbs and my wax hands
dance like the jointed segments of a
forgotten marionette.
The sound of rocks falling onto a wooden floor
caught my attention as I sat
in that attic with my strings draped upon the floor
waiting for years and years and years and years for
something that I could not name
and now the wooden head is tied in it's own kinds of knots.
Say the words but then it
will become apparent what cavernous space has been filled.
But remain and the valleys and caves will remain
as well.

It was all in smoke.
A reminiscience of Vietnam, the
time before
that defied what was hence.
And here we were at the pinnacle, the salt of all the earth's accumulations.
Her own spawn who
turned back to the sorcerer,
the cloaked shaman who worshipped the cave bear and scratched his visions
on the walls of his prehistoric domain.

You hope you hope you pray(?) to be correct but then again a fool for a head. who can you trust when HEAD turns against you?? To be a fool and a scholar, stand by helpless as you fool yourself into what fits your NEMESIS HEAD. And now you find yourself in the comfort:company of another, (a flower in a frozen field), whose own head can see itself and you as well. To listen to the fool. To feel the warmth of ignorant embrace.

Soft and light
(a dream at night)
This is the only thing , the
secondary sky above, the
afterthought that walks into a cellophane box.
That is home in the glowing of taste,
like the nuclear waste.
Spare my lungs you can rob the
head and intestines and heart
and my bones filled with objects but please let me keep
my rotting lungs
at least for a time
to catch my breath and continue scratching nonsense
into empty bright spaces caught between those wonderful
wings at the end of a disaster.
Can you see the movement in my  eyes?
Those are the snakes albinistic that
twist behind my eyelids, the slaves of the old gods.

Misplaced orb squeezed between
ringed fingers, a mass of palpitating flesh.
I'll look like water when kicked square in the jaw, fluidity from
a faucet in a burned out kitchen.
Filth and grime and a mouth whose
rhyming can't become anything else
but a nest of mechanical insects that
explode from your quivering teeth.
Also the thing about abrasions is that
they can be concealed behind the curtain like something from
olden theaters
(HIDE AND SEEK)
(PREY ON THE WEAK)
(SINGS FROM HIS SLEEP)

Something about the way
I can't seem to keep my skin in place,
it most likely wants to escape.
So now i'm skinless, naked in a new way.
Another thing I forgot to say
as the grass becomes itself in a mirror under ground.
Too much to possibly be satisfied with the
incoherent twitching I produce.
Nothing of use to be found beneath my
ancient rotting flesh or in my boiling
bubbling brain, whose melted contents
pour from my mouth like a spoiled soup in a broken
static-producing radio broadcast.
Dirt of a time when the walls were built from
HUMAN FLESH.

In the End, said and done with a red bow or a glistening cherry all the same as it has always been. With older skin and weary thoughts but only a page torn from what you are to show for it. Another shade of a darker color? To find again another whose eyes are able and willing to look up from the feet and see that we stand in a circle.

You took your sight from an eyeless man. Words told by forgotten prophets spiral from pupils pulsing with the poems of those who lock themselves away. Dimming lights bring the new spectacle, the ants who chant in a liquid chorus pasted on the walls, whose (KING) or (DUKE) or (HEAD) magistrate orchestrates their tumbling crawl. And now, in the arms of one who has seen these for themselves, do you find that the (HEAD) yet wanders? The boxes checked and questions answered, is there nothing left for the restless (HEAD)? Laugh at your own misfortune  and let the things become their own selves. Back again the one in whom you found your missing eyes. The one not put off by words of (HER) own making. Now this is really something you say to yourself and fight back against the NEMESIS (HEAD)

My age! My age! And with this new spring of youth too comes the stillness of mind and of trembling hands. Lights that retreat back into moving hands pour from darker walls. The glimpse of lost and weary eyes whose container is the very (HEAD) in which lies the key to my sanity. A pillar (HEAD to (TOE), MAN< SNAKE< GOAT, the gaze of beasts trapped behind the animal wall. and we, too look back on their ignorance in distain, as I have done once before as I sat in my dungeon beyond the human wall. But I could not hate what I once was, the ORB that we are had yet to reveal (OUR)self.
Continuing. In the pleasant way we have created I think we will be alright. To sooth one another's frayed nerves, whose exploding fractal dress is the crude caricature of lightning's scar on dry earth. To find another who has seen the end, the cliff where I have built my home, and as the earth falls away month after month and year after year I have learned to expect the splashing waves against my ****** cheek. But here too, another. Who waits as I do for the world to slip from beneath naked feet. Mine too rest in that earth on a cloudy day, as the rain has not yet come. And so I may wait with another in that doomed house, and she who has my lost eyes lets me see.

The awful awful crawl of the ants upon the wall.
Push push it to the edge edge the ledge ledge of the beds, freak my (HEAD) from worms, the pink fleshy extra-dimensional Grub, whose huummm may echo in the upper most octaves of the gorgonzola'd grail, steel rail you kissed into another place, the face, the face place with a leather clayse. CLAY! the Mandog's winged eyes who observes. And of the Orbulance? That place and beast who's vibration still reverberates within the cavernous (HEAD). dead dead. The time of the head recognized as the mechanical construction of kings from a different time. The characters in the book, the troupe of beasts and Sapiens that make up this dimensions rendition, the pastiche of an ancient play.

smaller within
smaller's place

cells within
cells

Learn what you can from this momentary place, the place that is the echoing familiarity whose essence is the treasure that mankind seeks, holding hands in the dark with lips that know each other.
(better)
To see the beauty in a single wavering line. The flowing rush whose electric pulsing heart explodes in yourself.
I can see now that the lights are themselves the changing and vanishing flowers that bloom from dimensional seeds.
These are fitting beasts.