Wednesday, April 30, 2014

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where the pork empire feasts on our feelings

in the dying light of the day gods

The SmokeWind breathes Us baked bodies

One must be reborn Again into the encapsulated larvae, the corrugated
fever.

My response to a filament is a course that is taking me like I’m a
particle of leaking rain on this ball of cotton.

We spent the hypothesis of Soul-Death unconsciously,
                while waiting in lines of corpuscles.

Poisoned extension to ward off the market predators
        whose transient toxicism transpires through Thought-Songs.

We don’t need to drown it out, but drink it in.

The taste of dirt is never spoken here.

        Mother of surfeit collapse at my feet.

I can open the wounds and crawl in to fester.

The curdled smile of a priest cracks the night open.

In the name of Jesi, cursed with airy preference amongst waves,
                allowed to shake catatonically with Maggot.

Breathe deep the hum of Monotony, sweeping the mind matter into piles 


we’ll bury your face in the shavings of them dead trees,
and wrap your veins in their leaves

Drag-on,
                                you ancient Aeon o’ Decay.

Here are the seasons we were once aware of.

A mirror was manifested out of my third eye.
It was always a Little big God