Schizophrenic vibrate and awake.
Weirdo translations of sound waves, course in a disaster across the mediocre membranes and forgiven lobes.
Eyes in their being are vivid video screens, depicting scenes of animal mutilation and maggots turned to gods, in the pink bellies of the color purple.
Playing with runes writ on the cancerous stones and murdered eyeballs of a Dodo bird. It's beak being used for other magical happenings performed by a flash of sorcerer's wit.
This yellow morning seems, and in it, that feeling is cursed to little scrutiny and no more thought than the feather gives the flesh.
Trek as a god journeys faith.
My hair is foul and breathes of nicotine and radioactive ozone like the fallen earths of a Martian's history bible.
Laugh in the face of hollow psycho facelifts, intended for a child's birthing ceremony.
I walk outside and gas has lit the air.
I walk through red clouds in red altars of sky.
I summon a gesture which is incantation.
I make the moon folklore and cherish the poison winds.
Downstairs the gnomes have gotten all the apple cores, and the feast is discarded. The party remains to pray to misunderstood deities who favor greater Gods which worship the fabric of water.