On that Plane
the sky speaks in
deathless monotones
fighting to impose on
our hibiscus-particle word hitters
that collaborate with and
depart from ourselves.
to see a vision
extended from the vision
of some blood-stretching figure
that usually flies up, and then me, you,
(them at times),
hoping to vagina-it in. Artily hoping
for the survival of the unlearned.
celebratory thoughts, so peanut-like,
your plastic droplet artificial
commercialized daisy
might slip into your
tobacco, oh fuck, it's coming
approaching coming nearing riding
coming , watch, watch your smackers, those
devouree-devoura openers
and closers and middle
grounds.
the geriatric forest and
spirit beach, the touching of
unassuming epileptic forces,
my fits of sunflowers, Joplin
and Wilde.
our gaps were filled
with silent triviality and depth.
can we strangle the perception of
lone panthers and live it under comfortable
roofs or sheds?
every demented body part of our society
we soiled and surgeoned ,
unitl our thoughts killed
momentary happiness, and all the other things
that went with it.
i still see my own shape,
with its susceptibility to condemnation
and oddity.
and you, you might be seen in a
distant coffin, or in a pillow, or
in a frozen capsule.
dragging feet away from the
wanking business they all
go through ,
digging deeper into a water hole
where the splashes only touch
wax free dreamers,
listeners,
and priveleges thems,
so there we first found
our talk, mockery and
realization .
