Sandpaper tin reflection Alternate lines of age and waves From what optical cauldron, of cold correlative connection, Three sisters of sanitary sane wage can weigh. Drums do disrupt the aural presentation, particle collision, Of tan ten point game (Blood trickles like from a spout to funeral cup Or black and blue Jack genteel, In thee ruined ashy sometime buried, brazen, cordial waveweepy poorchild (Will never know skill vicious, venereal, tornado, flaccid, and Always Divorcing Luck. This is a game. Surely looking it the direct opposite of something. Fire Smell, Angry Open Mouth (Cavity: another poem another time But a solid memory: Your lips that some... times, I may convince my infertile soul, Is just the rancid battery acid burning, bitter, base of my own desire to control, But surely I hallucinate. The drugs will always be my friends on the battered bow of my brow bucking and baying in the balkan wind where memory as a function is an afterthought and thus col lapse s on its elf. And Carol once told me, (Or did she show me? (Was it Discourse or Intercourse? That cards and chips, drugs and die Do not make the casino spin, the doors invisible / dividable, the theory, obviously Gestalt, but obviously Everyone's Mine ('s), Are ineffable. Sure As you blow cornered cat kisses into hands that only Self-Pleasure The only coin could possibly erupt would be Self Love / Digsust. "Face it, Carol, This could go either way." The felt is actually a mirror and the world is green, The mirrors you sing into aren't conduits of vanity but portholes peering headlong into Hell is what you make it is the constant perversion of the inverted is the correct answer is reality unwrapped is rejection is hope and dreams is what you finally decide is the color of your home your child's eyes the color of your lover's skin. is Charron's copper paddle. "Carol, this can go one of two ways." Have you ever crossed a river? is my response. Luck. He guides you, tells you cooly: stroke roll live love, Ha just Hope. Luck. He'll be here to hold your hair back as vomit erupts from your teeth, but those lucky fucking teeth violent But, Fucking is Like Melting Butter, Mister. Only a buck fifty a stick, Useless when its hard, Ha But, Don't Worry now, it'll melt soon enough Then, you can worry about what you'll be baking, boy. The room's spinning there are no reflections here but rice paper walls with violent shafts of blue gloom screaming Through. Here it comes again, Again the hand is shook And, You're hearing colors. "There are other things in life like butter, Carol." Does it stick on the wallpaper, like melting glass marching on their backs similar to tears but slicing furrows into The Wallpaper And drip down in shots of deep run blood Everytime you manage to remember a thought Spray starch is your Mother ironing her wallet. Sylvester drooling spittle like the Sirens' eternal wail is dementia at seven. You began young and look where it dropped you off, Ass bleeding, bazooka joe, melted chocolate and semen smashed silly into your toothless twist of a smile. "Listen Carol, I don't think this is going to work out." You never win. Snakes don't have synesthesia when you close your eyes and scream, until you scream. The Siren's Eternal... What was it? A cackle? A dream? did it echo? did it shoot craps and loose sleep? A bible? A book? even A page? A page of music? That's It! "Carol, sing that song again. "And, Carol?" "Don't ever stop singing."