Sir Eel
June 15, 2007

Flying substances echo like paper shattering into monstrous hills.
Winds of imagination saturate pink sails of propriety,
penetrate the plasticity of their daydreams
And melt like watches over endless tokens of toxic metaphore.

It is night. legions victorious and plumed illuminate
clouds of angel magnetism, but nothing parses.
even madness would be a relief.

Feed my trips, blue angel. It is night. I mine my dreams.
(And I dream that tincture of nightmare seeps into the waking waltz of reality.)
(And I dream I am hung by my foot.
I am as happy as Death and The Moon and the Ten of Swords.)


How can we escape this broken machine?
Psychology and chemistry revel
In intimate radiations of molecules and genitals
Subsiding over hypnagogic mornings of spent lust
In the Huron Valley mist through which runs
The psycho, babbling brook of consciousness,
Trickling into corners of heartache and October.
It is the same sordid stream that runs through everything
And we've all stepped in it a million times.

It is outside english on the inside baseball of the soul,
This eye in the mind of an illuminated dog
In the flood on the bike ride back to Basel.


Puffing on an oval cigarette,
She looks super hot.
She exhales a universe of lyrics,
Tenderly unfolded,
Broken like a whisper in the moonlight.

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