You Hackensack Station
You tiny ****** quiet *****
How dare you keep such a weak atmosphere on my youth
You don't deserve me
You need some blood of life, ****
**** of my dirtiest saddest static lucidities
You do indeed though, my Hackensack Station,
Have these clenchers
Clenching for every little bad moment of life
And inhabiting your innards
Sadly the other "respectable" ****
Just lock their tongues, eat their vision
Static and cold and minute ****
Hackensack station dares to breathe
The breath exits it's miserable doors
Oozing with everything but character
However only to sigh, and sigh on the inside
About a woman's wrinkly *** bills
We the breath, have migrated from the quiet hell
To the eerily similar bus life
Only there... we move, we motion, finish a journey previously doubted
With white noise, and white noise that at first was not white

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

Geometries of smoke
In which the violent
Of this town
Seek out their
Lucidities
Where rage's mute exile
Stares
Through arrogance as masks
At auguries found in
*****'s morning shades of
Hopsital, puke's
Colour spectrums
For oblivion.