cracked violin spine

their dry tongues split like scorched earth,
opening to reveal other mouths,
kind of like your vagina in labour.
it's got something to say, maybe too much
considering the blood gushing down the
side of your legs and soaking your bedsheets.

the blood forms like continents,
dries in and this world in red is flat like
colombus predicted, it looks like the
rorschach panels used in your
therapy sessions.

i helped an elderly prostitute with a
cracked violin spine across the road
today. brought her home. put her in
the watering can.

the tongue is still parched.

Cloak of hoarse cries, green skies

slithering, sulking, looking back one last time,
cloak of hoarse cries, safe warmth outside
vertical colourless coffin. telepathic smile,
bile seeping from withered black petunias
peeling off the hearts with each of his
final pulses.

the red warmth grows bright with every pulse,
and gives lightly the sensation of yawning.
a scatter of of clarity, then in reverse.
and then the pulse stops, leaving only
terrible anger.

a puncturing of the sky,
knifing, hacking at the skies, leaving
a hot, swelling midday in shreds,
a veil of unhealthy green skin and molten
yellow seeping through the wounds,
raining upon once optimistic children,
now burning, charring black and their
screams suggest they'll never accept
it, they'll lie to the end.

a morbidly obese woman cradles charred
remains of her child, rocking her back and
forth and finding time to lick her fingers
and lips, wondering what's on the shopping
channel.

Look at how far we've got

tall, stretching monitor looms overhead,
drooling static drops that crackle on contact,
reminding you of wide smiles and hair on end.
rusty robust robotic laughter penetrates the
juices in your brain, creating an unseen blood
spectrum, eyes wide open as you feel the
rythmic moisture dance.

silhoutte against the flickering, ever changing
channel zero. you fray at the ends, your aura
melting away, but your darkness never changes.

Channel one:
sun rise over the clouds, you're a camera, a
teary eye reflecting the bliss of light, closing
in on the bliss, your a plane, going straight
towards the sun, black corridors falling away and
crumbling upwards to the sky at a last attempt
to imprision you as you soar off. oh sweet midday,
you quiver just a little, as your children panic in
fear of earthquakes. lying on the grass, hollow
witness to the beauty you leave behind in the sky.

Channel two:
Suspect interrogation, two hulking idiot cops
weilding hatchets and water pistols, the
hatchets for the elvis fans and the water pistols
for those in favour of under water blowjobs.
" you little tease you!" one cop says to the other.
"can we get this over with? i've got zimbabwae
elections at 8.30" said the soaking wet and
limbless suspect.

Channel Three:
really slow edible nature. looks nice, drags on.

Optimistic Racist Timetravel

swashbuckling swatstikas fight it off to a jazz number
fronted by a red-head in christmas, but christ missed the
show, and the stage gave way to the city below, the big
band in freefall continues to play, but a different song,
the soundtrack to a stomping parade of glistening skinheads
with glowing fuzzy scarfs, and every thud makes you
sick to the stomach. the image fades, we're nearing the
end of the plummit.

the band lands safely and have forgotten their previous lives,
i suppose the crowd will have to do the same, they'll mutter
random colours in vain, scraping at their own skin and wondering
just what it was they forgot. "boy, this new world sure is hot!" says
the saxaphonist, as his fellow band mates look in horror at
a sigil in flames, in the middle savanna-land,
with a mute red head flailing in pain impaled at the top,
trying to scream, but only imbedding her face on the
saxaphonists memory to the end of his days.

He looks at his hands to see they are brown on one side, as does
the rest of the band. they don't know any different, but are still
suprised to see it. far off they notice dust rising, and hear light
rumbling, which gets louder and louder. the band see an army of
grey men on all fours galloping towards them, crying unknown
chants of hate and rebel. the band try to run, leaving their instruments
behind, but the grey men plow straight through the instruments,
creating a dischordant crash that momentarily and comically stops
the band in their tracks, expressions of amazement on their faces.

frail old snake charmers, one in each corner of this planet,
come together to share the things they've seen in the snakes eyes.
but they all agreed that a static image cut to nostalgia on a lazy day time
tv show, full of captured suns, was the right way to calm their nations,
to unify this earth in peace.

The Souce of the End

The source of this river sleeps as the world stands still,
passin' through gardens of red, passin' through you.
Seeping like smoke, breathing at will,
When we get to the clearing in the path our eyes
will see true.

Because right now!
Night and day are the same
when our bodies
meld like sun, moon and rain!
and far away the thunder groans
in jealousy.

and the veins of the earth crack and froth,
the horizion a molten skyscraper broth,
love and concrete the same,
Lips of the mountains parting ways,
the last kiss left our village in sways
we didn't end the world,
but the world rightfully took us all
back home, we didn't die alone.

Lips of the mountains parting ways,
the last kiss left our village in sways

Nickles, Dimes and Famineland

Poor man wrapped up in coats attracts the pigeons,
a spy who can't tell if he likes the attention.
gone down ol' dusty with a nervous smile and a
jangle of all the money he owns, and a vile
bunch clumps together to shout a whole
lotta nothin' worth shouting (at a loud volume).

tough ol' leaning tower takes a shower when
it's time, on nickles, dimes, famineland and
those who were robbed blind.
that clock ticks it's egotistical click and
snitches and steals more than it can lick.
you don't own this land and that,
and there's no name over our heads,
for territory and that just happens to be
were i sat.

the longer we don't evolve and grow,
the more fungus will show.
and we be talking. under the only streetlight
for miles. and you know what? its better being
nice than all the time be right.

chooka blanko sedative go down up and towns
be vacating, man stupifies the rights and oge,
just feelin' important, mind your buisness.
and il smile at you, and il mean it.
and you'l think im your enemy.

mankind don't get my forgiveness nor my sorrow,
nor do i wage war, for those who think thats fighting
talk. and for those whose jobs it is to outline bodies
with chalk, your stick of chalk ain't real, and my
condolences go to your imagination.
"retractions, dan 3:16"

godswallow

the chosen slip down the throats of gods
and work the organ crops on the red field,
light breeze swaying arteries around those
holding their sweating brows up, little dots
of red condensing on their heads.

day is done, and the haunting gargles beckon
the men back to the dry halls.

each to their own cappillary, left to reflect
and lie to themselves, left to dry out after
humid red work, left to depressive peace
and silence and to patiently wait for the
gargles of another day.

some of the men, the cursed chosen, start
to show signs of ingestion on their skin,
they cannot take it, the toll of the inner gods
is rotting them and their sanity to the very
core. a question of promise, faith and existence.

thought and fear takes over until it's secreted,
until the new men are swallowed.

he doesnt know how long he's been there.
he lost count of the gargles long ago, during his
attempt to shut out all dangerous thought.
until now he had simply ignored how many had
come and rotted before him, but finally the fear
grabs him and wears away at his whole existence.

was there really truth in the gods promise?
yes, he thinks, there must be, the other men must
have pondered the same thing and let it get to them,
but i must not. i am here for a reason, i reap the vein
holds and shed the old outer skins during the floods,
i risk everything and yet i am still here, my faith
unfaltering and true. i am the true chosen one.

but in truth, he was lied to, as all men were, lied to
by their passion, their hope of truth in the god's
promise, but higher powers are evil, slaving us to
keep their false information flowing, on every new
turn of technology, we're insignificant snacks.
nothing changes, our ego and self importance
grows bigger and bigger that we'd believe anything
just to support it.

it's time to live for ourselves!