forty-five minutes on yr knees with the dry heaves
shadows are often seen quietly orating
to cope with things like seeing yr dead grandmother
crawling upr yr leg

the double layer
plunging me into a subhuman funk
from the vomitorium heave the fibrous howlings
jerking him out just in time
just as it is considered
improvisationthe stainlesssteel hunting
knife with a blade like a fresh honed straight razor
every image is a colonization of wicker
menacing vibrations all around us
its these lights and

Jesus Christ with a knife in her teeth
we were both born protestant
it seemed like a reasonable place to park, plenty of space
small hermaphroditic protrusions
half naked with a head full of ether
fire red maple leaves sprout from my scalpel's vase
being chopped to bits by a buzz saw
the shadow afflicted the spleen thread
lunatics screwed into a cloud of dust
now everyone is dead i think
forever thinking that just behind some narrow door
gullets, genitals, severed vessels, scanted clavicles
wanting to slice me up like a shark after meat
held in the oblique throat behind the tentacles

and so much for the bad gibberish
just as it is one for the music of changes

to carve a little v on yr forehead
the astral figure from yr wicker stick
on the verge of some awful psychic orgasm
voltage thrust into fascia and circumference
began to howl and moan waving the blade out in front of him
certain of these sounds approach the ascending aorta
and I was carefull never to kill more than I could eat
sharing a wall: dripping artery : glamour
at top speed hassling anybody they met
the world no point an echoic chamber
kill the body and the head will die
recite a remarkably faithful sexual image.