Agressive Quadrangular Infinitive Passive

necessity is not perceptible. even at its inception it dissolves into everywhere. it returns to the source of its conception and indicates its derivatives in an endless chain of causation itself derived from the super-imposition of the source upon the echo.

what the echo reveals is the necessity of an origin and the desire to remain hidden from it.

the child is a runaway. seeking to design itself. an autonomous significance revealed by a signifier it itself assigns. disguised to operate on the logic of deception. conceiving a reflection which redirects attention from its inception. what it produces it also erases. the act of production is itself an erasure. the erasure itself is also a disguise. which reveals what it erases.

not viceral. but visual. because noise would stretch time. an arduous smile. genetic eggs polish the mirror. the shock of a fatalist's creation. constituted by the power of an egregious machine. impalpable and ever-present. we are spoken by our own tombs. (circular internal). the name encloses meaning. (quadrilateral circular). a sudden wake which drives. (quadrilateral box within a box). surveillance to correct degrees. (internal circular). vibrating with involuntary reflexes. (quadrilateral internal circular soap smell penetrating person). a profane heaven from within a dream.

the tendency for all systems. to decay. in time. erode into nature. swallowed by the earth. and dug out of time. we are a memory of art and facts and clock plates flooded dusk and we might have been one piece. but nature abhors a vacuum.

it is a religion you'll never know (globe modeled) how badly i care (man made mottled global perfume) about not caring (even when) parellelogram diagnal imitating madamoiselle is dead.

Nitrous Oxide

the dwarf's hose was obviously a penis.
hissing implantation strategies. is it safe?
her tongue, quivering like a carpet.
a dwarf inside a clown. a fake tree on
a fake stage. the sound of an aspirator
hoping to turn her into a whisper.
rose dipped saliva drooled from her lip.
she was always asking me for scripts.
her whispers seemed to come from her
teeth. dwarves would wander her maze.
little transistors begging to be enslaved.
you can't see nanodevices on radiographs.
the device you have is called a mandibular
joint dysfunction. sedative hypnotics. he
was injecting drugs into the ring of
eye shadow around her wound. a
person to person transmutation.
the sensory stresses of hypoxia set to
converge upon the universal circus.
analyzed hushes would burst the bone
from the tip of her lips to the cold of her
toes. he would struggle. ripples haunted
his navel. strapping regardless of the
deluge. regardless of the plague. she
devoured his yawns. escaping her
whirlwind. failing release. objected
to her own bosom. she wanted to kill
the dwarf. but the dwarf was made of
rose ringed shadows thus their was no
flesh for her to rend. sobered and
desertlike, she emptied her kidneys
in an alkaloid stream. masquerading
as passion. back to what it must be like
to be alive.

Spectacle

unfolded wings being
so rare in our sight
the way people stare
so willing to wear
such things

like transcendental canines and molars
& confessions of the rising sun
pocketing the most slippery of eyes

when

everything is psychotropic
everything defiles the mind
everything is an addiction
everything is good and fine
with eyes past pride
or rearview mirrors
that keep us from seeing
but also from being seen

& now i'm talking to a girl
with a martyr's name
& her two faces
cost a pocket-full of stars

Snow Lights

his body fell through time. the opening, a shower drain. drops of dried blood and four round sores. snakelike lesions traveled up his arms. caked the holes in her face with a wad of makeup. latched onto his legs. allowing her pores to open. in a night of seduction. maggots were living in his skin. bitten holes. burrowing into her deeper tissue. sucking on his skin. simian and scared. the blood red glow of translucent snakes crawled in their brains. trancelike with dead eyes. staring at the injection site. romantic love. through the magic of their own fairytale. the world ceases to exist. and snow lights stole their breath.

The Forgery of the Wishing Well

the dick is more powerful than the brain. the birds in their nest. drove a knife into the heart of him who had been turned into a moribund toy. how many men must have fallen in her eyes. where beauty itself was drowning. they both nibbled at the torturous positions. mechanical dolls in the soft light of shadows. his own fantasies, like a pile of cocaine, bathed her face in mysterious shadows.

she was a sensitive woman. frozen in a waking nightmare. born before mirrors. in the pain of her fiery body rose monsters from beneath her bed. the kingdom of shadows. emotionless hallucinatory figurines. where orgasms shatter dreams and the gulf between lovers is as large as the distance between our wonder at the stars and the promised land of story books. anatomical positions do not exist in fairy tales. whispers would split the bloodsteam from passions too subtle to be touched. signs organized around a watched clock. they were like wishing wells. her hands would linger in the space she'd created in his chest. like the cock she'd masturbated in her fantasies. until the moment he'd told her that he was gay. delusions are of lovers, said the knife. they make our hopes seem real.

To Anything that Flees

ask anything that flees
the spirit double warped
in an epileptic rhythm
among the operations that store
a mausoleum of schemata
ask anything that petrifies us
two nervous magnetisms
coffin sensations
torments and seductions
oblivions and manifestations
multiplying its mirages
along the incadescent edges

all of the people saw with fear
the bloodstream of images
a confusion of silences
whose dismal nothing aspires
to the gesture made by lava
exploding from the phantasms
contorted in a personal anatomy

the sky can still fall
nature mocks our immortality
beyond the tremors
a metastasized soldier
forgot what the sky was
grievously weeping
burst mysteries through
the looking glass heavens
moribund in the cries of crows

& there they met the weather
& God told them it would rain
& so they burned each other at the stake
whose shadow bends over
the scape goat's throat

Knowledge

burned by the block
a paradox plagued by steroids
would move the clarity of Marduk
who was being conceived in a noose of thought.

drugs bid love. my blanket replied with the hope
of my throat. false definitions covered by vomit.
you would pray smooth. understanding the first
bright change could be your last. serving the god
object. all of those operators. foiled by reality.
nurture the symptoms. they scurry to cover.
their reflection in a book. an infection of flesh
along the prism of the centroid. back to what it
must be like to be a book. locked in a repeating
circle. haunted humans playing to be bought.
they eat their fears from pornographic cancers.
acquired from a divine seed buried beneath
a ruthless tree.

Dawn Will Eat History [Refire::2]

dawn will eat history
the unnamed machination
butterflies into names
intercepted at the center
the gift of Einstein
a choiceless God
whose dice endager
the eye of gravity
ordered in torsoes
eyes on fingernails
tongues in navels
we urinate through our nipples

& an angel is analyzed by a rat

is there any difference between man's gods & a god's cock & and an animal's jaw?

each is its own distended center. collapsing into what it relapses into. because parrots are dignitaries. the only form of jurisprudence. they can only feel their own gravity. and cannot tell themselves from others.

echoing words they have no intention of meaning. meaning words they have no intention of speaking.

conjectures of the speculum
the birds would sing
an apocalypse of apples
if the torments of the pit
could only make us climax

disjointed demons
the shadow retracts
an entire universe tapped
inside of a skull
everything relates and has meaning

the mirror tells me the same
stories that i am fantasized by
playing faces in a transmorphic orchestra
the atmosphere itself will swallow our names

special! special? what do you get? another drop. in the cosmic ocean. we escape our lives & love is paranoid into noises succumbing out of our way of praying. our kneel.
fear based models of god creep into sin as death. and the fleshpot model of sin devours sin. this is the paradox of our pretense to godhood. shit and farts and bodily juices. we are disgusted by our incarnation. so much so that we lust for it. our godhood thus is crafted out of self-disgust. a pretense to self disgust to destroy self disgust.

The Crying Cloud of Marduk [Refire]

there is a god
to sort through the phony confessions
flowers of masochism
at the end of every accusation
which flagellates
from your soul to mine

i cloister inside you
pure as a pardoner
i eat sacred grammars
from the language of parrots
until my truth becomes a circle
in the yawns of demons
heads drop through puddles

Mother Mary!
i see you are teeming with hell
usurping the wind with rain
which eats you well

The Extermination of the Name of God [Digital]

Black Tower

thunders within the wounds of legends. covered in a sensory roar of death. which fills death itself with the nocturnal bombardment of shooting stars. ruptures along the comforts of a fire revealed in the sky. blessed be this fire. a sacrament which crucifies the flames. hallucinations and hallelujahs framed about this face which realizes the destiny of imaginary dragons that serve as decorations for the noisy rending of an indefinite darkness. expressing the submission of a weeping voice which cannot recognize its own light.

sudden fire
born in the sky
the animated mannequin
of carrion man
whose music is reduced
to an arithmetic
of unperverted pantomimes
regarding only lies

living points of reference
like raging voices
spoiled through stunned time
in a wilderness of eyes.

blessed be this fire. oh crucifier of flames. blessed be the recipriocal destruction that reduces us to pieces. blessed be the power of your manic kin who rage through names. already falling into pieces. little breaths and brittle intonations purge the dim echoes which haunt our blurry dreams. the black tower. by the clarity of its own constructrion. bent all angles toward its interior. so that it would make a trembling circle. congealed. responding to the vague traces that correspond to nothing.

the kings of books were really demons making suits of hair and books of skin. the priests were transmorphic soldiers with hollowed eyes and lips of lightening. the soldiers were circles chasing their tails and annihilating the homes they'd built out of bones. they erected shrines to their kings under the direction of puppets and amputated the limbs of their own god, consuming it as a sexual talisman. the monuments were slaves and the slaves were monuments betraying their children to the fangs of manifestation. their eyes like garments dangling from chandeliers. betraying their constitution to a lord who fantasized about being a god and yawned.

The Rhetoric of Exorcism

Great article on the post-9/11 zeitgeist of demonic rhetoric in political speech and popular culture.

http://www.accessmylibrary.com/article-1G1-113893262/rhetoric-exorcism-george-w.html

The Exorcism of the Ineffable

even disease laments the influence of a darkness reflected in creation. the mask falls slipping off the god who negates the night. true freedom is completely dark. myths of darkness communicate the delirium of a convulsive passion buried in a battle of symbols. the virtuality of the impossible. all of their screams resounded with an appreciation. an abscess of destiny to be drained of all the lights they spin to cover. fantasies are bundled in the radiance of a strange sun, organically civilized by the degraded portion of a radioactive soil. the overflow of vices transmute into the exoricism of a pitiful gesture, latent with its own cruelty. freedom from life is life exorcising itself of its own vigor, impure, hostage to an endless vertigo which exalts its own energy. an energy set to supress energy to multiply curiously with all the perverse possibilities which come with annointing oneself the finger of god. the essential separation of mind from body gushes like words from human teeth. the fever within boils over into nature. an overgrowing admission that a magic knot played by numbers haunts our infancy like an evil apparition. death is the cure for men whose incarnation is a blasphemy against the illumination that is imprisoned in this shell. hearts devoured in this space yearn only for a getaway, an escape which climaxes in oblivion. the endless emptiness we call god is where we project our most sinister fears and desires, darkened by a nature of animals whose teeth haunt our dreams. the desires of life vanquished beneath the pornographic veneer of a libido that has been abstracted into a rhetorical ether. cloistered and bubbling it reproduces itself in a forgery of its own body, a simulacrum called god, who vascillates like an insane molecule and impales life itself on its mirrored ego.

The Poetics of Ugliness

It's difficult for a poetics of beauty to accurately come to terms with the world that I live in. Ugliness has its own beauty, I suppose, and it is in our despair and depression and our sense of hopelessness, our apocalypses that loom over every word we speak, that we find ourselves in the current midhaven of a poetics of sewage, tumors, insanity, and faith. We want to believe so badly in a God who hovers just beyond our perception who is willing to forgive us for our trespasses against the Earth, that we believe he will literally keep our environment in stasis no matter how little regard we show it. We believe that because our ancestors endured an ancient flood, we will not have to endure the same. How sad will it be when we realize that our prayers have merely been aimed at balls of helium and hydrogen millions of light years away, completely unaware of our existence.

Apocalyptic fantasies are the projections of species who are aware that their own lives are doomed to cease some time in the future. But they are also the fantasies of the oppressed who feel (rightly or wrongly) that a dominant power is corrupting the very world they cohabitate. To the children who are born with black lung disorders and asthma, a poetics of beauty is a mockery of their reality. Who will take up their voices when poets believe in a looking glass universe and that perception is reality?

Perception is not reality. Reality existed before humans were alive to fetishize the sollipsism of their own self-obsessiveness. Who can write in earnest of beauty when the polluted air we breathe is killing our children? We wanted to grow up to be Romantics, like Wordsworth, who saw the beauty of nature and the wisdom of children. But we ended up caught in the Ryme of the Ancient Mariner, and here is where we must stay if we aspire to write the words that befit our place in time.

The only fitting metaphor for an economy that values growth above all things, is a malignant tumor destroying the very body that it feeds on for sustenance. A religion based on growth, is itself, much like a retrovirus or a prion which finds unlike cells and reprograms them with its own internal coding. Like psychotics, we have come to compartmentalize these notions in the moribund space of our own bodies, but we must recognize that the same basic mechanism that exists on an elemental level in proteins and tissues, finds another home (quite comfortably) in the human soul.

Nothing in nature can grow uncontrollably without necessarily destroying itself. These are lessons that we forget in our business models which are fashioned out our greed and our lust for power. A poetics that rejects the truth serves itself, and that which serves itself is reviled by the web of life and will in time be purged. We are seeing this happen now. We have made our apocalypses come true through years of systematic abuse of our environment. We have turned out freshwater lakes to dead lifeless toilets while praying to a vacant god that would fulfill every promise of a destiny of renown. We want to suck in attention the way plants feed on sunlight, while investing in a dream of greed and egoic masturbation.

There will be no hand of God to save us if we cannot do the basic things that save ourselves; and to write about flowers and writing is (for a poet) to betray his duty as a thinker, like so many in so many other vocations who plod mindlessly toward a wormy doom.

The floods that drown our children and the sulfur rains that burn our skin will hardly destroy life itself, merely ourselves, and rightfully so. The research of our greatest thinkers who are coming up with replacement strategies for the burning of oil and coal are falling on deaf ears because the oil lobby is more powerful than reason.

In the end, we will die much like Plato's Atlanteans who given all the technological prowess of the gods themselves could not persist as they did without the virtue of their own foresight.

So when you ask yourself, why does this nice young man of good humor write such exotically ugly poetry, be reminded of the portents of the modern sciences which prophecy that we cannot by any means sustain the rate of consumption we are currently enjoying, nor house a place for all the waste we are producing without unfixably altering the chain of balance that is our biosphere. We are as a species, as of this moment, on suicide watch, and only the suicidal have devised a means of escaping the immanent doom that awaits our continued poor choices.

Day Off

"A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death."

Rev Doc Martin Luther King Jr.

The Death Drive

the spiritual physiogamy of a cadaver
precisely defined
is a necrophile
gratifying himself
on virulent corpses
at the expense of all reason
he is purged of fear
flirting with death
his marionettes are lifeless
instruments which once housed life
and together they bear
a puppet race
of puppeteers
whose myths evoke a dream
of spiritual freedom
or else freedom from the spiritual
men who are sure that death is an end

There is No Universal Truth (Except this One)

unlike this fear. unlike the tendencies of the child. unlike the stars themselves despaired and despairing. we are the synchronized failures of a grammar of abjections. pits of a wellness sensation. winds captured in an endless revolution. convinced that we are victims signalling through the flames. monotheism is an actor. but we are merely scripts. the stage is consumed in a ball of light. expressed in bizarre corruptions. analyzed down to a genetic model. the tumors of tomorrow grow from a fragile fluctuating center which like the atoms of sunlight has forgotten its origin. compelled by clocks we close upon the passive paradox of an agency which like the current of our veins we cannot control. our costumes are impregnated by the nature of a product. swallowed by bestial essences. a monster whose faculty grows within our bodies like a new organ devouring my delightful island of desire. every falsehood devotes itself to the indeterminable. infinity laments the circle. naming and directing shadows, living instruments whose gods sleep in museums, addicted to their own exaltation. our burnt offerings rise into their sky. we can't love anything we can't control. agonized poetry predicts that silence will rule the shades. assailed by weary philosophers. making their way out of a cave. Wittengenstein the Great is fallen! the habitation of vipers that collude with an impossible truth. there is no truth. except for this one. there is no truth. which itself becomes a universal which subsumes the vacuous in a jigsaw puzzle of dreams. can we put our faces back together when we hide our lives in a bottle of pills. the chair is talking about a feeling. a dysphasia whose sympathy is the final breath of an expiring god.

The Angel of the Bottomless Pit [Refire]

turing and turin bid on bodies. evil satan
vanity cabaret. carousel of cains. the
devil, who immortalized amnesia
prepares giants in death valley.
in a soup of genomes. machinations
slip. terrorists play their names
cry their fear in the bloodstream of blame.
heat sleeps and seeks. accusing
a voodoo of brains that curse their
dreaming demons. vicious circles
spiral into a regress of screams.
bloody mary, the fang you stake
retires to a bottomless pit. abaddon
rises from the deep. polluters believe
there is no tomorrow. dreamers retire
to their sleep. we are being swallowed
by a calm state. medicated into normalacy.
the study of breath. bacterial mitosis.
i have carried this demon on my back.
synchronizing with a timeless god.
whose jaw is the splendor of an
ancient deluge.

Reading (Addendum)

I forgot to mention the time, probably because I didn't know what it was myself, but the reading at Rust Belt will be between 3-5. With an encore presentation somewhere else afterwards. My apologies, I didn't organize this thing so I don't really know how its going to work.

Where do we put our Memories?

the feedback mirror. fetishes of the snakecharmed.
shock machines decorate a reality tunnel
in the mesenchyme of psychic graffiti

revelations bubble into the syndrome
of a schizoid masochist

all of those locks
come with wellness
we will make a nest
in oblivion

call it deluge, my dear
we will refer to it
in a hush

fallen angels haunt the backyards
of torn down houses
like barren tombs
with made up names
the lamentations of ghosts
we cautiously cleanse ourselves

the influenza of symmetry
product dignity
breath retires the heart
that whispers the empathies
of a peace compelled
to a margin

if you eliminate what comes before
then you eliminate what is to come
you are left

Reading

I will be doing a reading at Rust Belt Books on the 16th of January for any of you who are in the area. I will also be hawking a limited edition booklet of 10 poems selected from my current project, The Vicious Circle which I have tentatively titled Auto-Intoxicated. I will be reading with another local poet, Matthew Cohen Dunleavy and there will be musicians playing in the background, namely Jax Deluca and others.

Thanks for your support.

Risperdal: An American Prophecy

Dawn Will Eat History [Refire]

Einstein desired the mythos of a choiceless God whose dice endangered the best kept predictions of a science of the sand. the eye of gravity speaks a memory. dawn will eat history. the unnamed machination of a God who butterflies into names. a potential gift intercepted at the center. you, who bundled an indefinite universe must not allow the automatic locks to usurp the values that I rage against. piteous bullshit ordered in torsoes. eyes on fingernails. tongues in navals. we urinate through our nipples like an angel being analyzed by a rat. a conjecture of the speculum and the birds would sing an apocalypse of apples if the torments of the pit could only make us climax. a disease characterized by pleasure. disjointed demons haunt about the space that the schizophrenic composes in self-portraits. deceived in the fantasy that everything relates and has meaning. the mirror tells me the stories that i am fantasized by. the shadow retracts. an entire universe trapped inside a skull. viral encephalopathy. blue and egregious. playing faces in a transmorphic orchestra. a wind of gateways in a secret sleep. swallowing their own chaos. that the images receive. slipping into an infinity. an unconvincing biology whose bacterial bloodstream flowers into a faceless function. i am the anatomist of a shrinking fiction. they weep over star wings. circling with struggled bursts to break free of a vomit which stains reality. mimed by the psychology of marketing on my concrete pendulum of emptiness. prepare your vocalization for a greater dysphasia. the vain doom of a catastrophic fantasies. hateful spectators praying to be watched. moved by the multiplying of starlights in a receding sky.

Kraeplin's Precocious Madness

powerful voodoo love money. feedback mirror consumed in a mighty marketing schizm of rehearsals and legends. the Eristocracy makes me poison your children so that I might die like Socrates on an overdose of anti-psychotics. they see the creative principle and call it a disease. right now psychiatrists mull about this poem like pimps in a warehouse playing dusk at dawn. their thunderbolts are electroconvulsive shock machines. they fantasize about their names on diseases. they cut out frontal lobes and declare their wishes, scientists, magicians, operation mind-fuck. speak their names and they hear yours. speak your name and they hear their own. normal killers with drugs fetishizing their own name in a wellness sensation of synchronized singing. tumor voices in the reality tunnel. their interpretations supplant the beautiful in a dismal echo of chemicals accompanied by renown. the florid false indolence of a psychic graffiti. scrawl your name in the mesenchyme of a selfish voodoo. snakecharmed philosophers in a sooth of oblivion. connection confirmed bacterial putty suckling instruments which fantasize about being people. synchronized by virtue of their fetishes to be addicted to an ideology of happiness in a cloud of normal water, clear.

Dessication

you don't have to die for my sins for i am faultless in the eyes of God who is a lonely deathless coward who cannot stand the sight of himself. he created a wife who created children who kill each other. together they gorge on the corpses of their children. a hundred sympathies thunder against the climax of a shade's prayer whose countryside is adorned in the rotting flesh of an arbitrary enemy. cowards believe in immortality and conspire with the jurisprudence of the deluded. here comes the dreamer. dreams of the sun. napalm gods. my face dislodges along the rage of my roar. chimeras of logic. devoted to the petrific bowels of their own antipathy. feel deeply and escape the universal rhetoric of the flame slaves. can we be certain that we are worshipping the right god when so many have killed in its name? the moral core of a death wish is to take as many people into the pit as can be named. dusk is the mutiny of the day caught in an eternal treason that carries red death to heroes and traitors as one. free will is the fantasy of a puppet race of saviors and slaves who exchange places in an everlasting eden. my voiceless science is the valium of the intelligensia. a carrion comfort aspiring to a papacy of wraiths. while the classical soul ran pre-written scripts on a fatalist stage, we chase our own tails in a funnel magic of lethargic influenza. we inherit nothing but syndromes and manufacture diseases and cures out of an automatic ailment engine born out of bodies but residing in minds. we bundle our relics around a behavioral science that predicts the everlasting manner of a compartmentalized disjunction of self and other. we are all projectors. heating the universe in a paradox of units. nurturing our own breath and ensuring the survival of our livelihoods if not our lives. the play ourselves as torpid gods then sell the gunless a mythology of a devil who wanted to be god and failed. we have failed every religion we have invented.

rational addiction becomes sobered by a destiny of moribund passivities urinated by a communication which rages over the desired holes. insect mitosis. fear holes. harlequin icthyosis. insisting that even god drawn codes are prone to failure. that a consciousness can be born to a grammar of cancer. like mummies we refuse to give ourselves to an unclean earth. even shadows possess these symptoms. like sympathetic knots on cold nights beneath warm sheets in a warehouse of refugees. the moon overlooks us all. our fragile lives making soldiers grow cold. the sluggish products of video game logic which levels up to an addict's darkening. bursting with a turbulence that deceives even the darkest of pleasures. i would devote my trembled voice to a better death than the simple moan of an expiring body. fireside sadists can relate to a symptomology that pollutes the mesenchyme of every child before it has had a chance to draw its first breath. we are born into a war. romantic and devoted. obedient but hardly loyal. tomorrow characterizes the sensation of a new oriifice. one that is impeded by our narratives to greatness. beyond the veins of our enemies lie the emptied hearts of pornographic hypnotists. like a heart struggling to beat. like a king carrying his son's body toward a science of cowardice.

E. Howard Hunt

citizen product. litters of fates sobbed Kessler's syndrome. amputated, waiting. bubbling foam introjected a bone fang of hyperplasias like a psychophysiological melanoma projecting a behavioral metastasis.

thank you, operator logic. without compassion, we abnegate to possess. like a science of seeds and soil, the moisture laments a universal ripple into a swelling cancer bypassed in a biopsy of critical napalm devoured by a projective stillness. hope grafts delusions to the mesenchyme of a reductive religion. debasing the divine in an imanence of bundled tendencies to transcend. god will save us from a cascade failure in a procession of spectators peddling the spectres of fear.

the rhetoric of the shadow begets the dialectics of the shadowed. i can use my tears to drive you out of your blessed mind. everyone who's ever had a heart has turned on it the moment it broke. Marduk has evolved into a sobering madness. overtuned in cool molecules bouncing off the boundaries of a collapsing wall. he swallows the future of an unknown genotype whose unnamed scent dispossesses the phenomenalogical vomit of a dizzied magic.

we are the dead. light pours from our eyes. we hide behind stars. we eat lunch with atoms. we bounce off mirrors. you collect us in your breath. & sheathe us in wreaths. & flowers decorate our heaven. from which there is no return.

Byzantine Failure

the Cockcroft-Walton generator is the business model of a suicidal god modelocked in the politics of self-annihilation. the incantations of sobered marionettes drive Tantalus into a regress of masks. too big to fail. inverted on an empty voodoo generating same from same in a heaven of wind-up toys weightless in an antinomy of names. the sensitive dependency on initial conditions burie the drug of infinity in a radioactive eden which immortalizes amnesia behind a mirror of dysphasia.

our names fall like tears from the heart of a breaking god and collapse into a cascade failure of a messiah who has been baptised in sewage. the snakecharmed genomics of a suicidal god reflects any rhetoric in a zero sum game against the entire world. he expands from the Super-Kamiokande experiment and recoils into pure logic. he expands from a center and obliterates all flesh. his name is fear. he is an inverted masochist sitting on an electric fence. the metanoia of the paranoid like a draculaxative of biobricks caught in a cascading rollback of Byzantine generals whose spectres pour out of these eyes. no story is told without struggle and pain. we invent dragons. that battles may be fought. with fake cures for fake diseases. i am the dragon. you're the white rabbit. now run.