In Thy Sarcophagi

It could go on, this Casper, if I don't exorcise the demon.

Mildly afraid and violently cautious, the virulent hive lives, knowing his poison is not strong at all because of the slit-throat mastecation.

It could carry on for days! they said.

It could carry on for an epoch! I thought.

You don't want this! They said.

Nay, I need this! I thought.

The scuff-mark guillotine tore on like a vulture for demons, raping the lark of its song, taming the hatred like a blackbird's whip. Time went on but the thought slowed so that time could catch up, only to stop for a moment before perpetuating the improper and vile fragment of the hedonist.

How Come? Why Come?

They all could do nothing except ask nothing, dlved too deep in their own desire, their own ego.

But their id was not. Not what, goddammit?

Like lines of powder for the guns, the amphetamine derivative drove the atheistic insane, drove them toward religion. So quick, so quick, the neologist works.

Your cobblestone bullshit is no match for the vintage universal I have spun like Charlotte's nasty web that snitched and snitched and snitched and told and told and told and told and taddled and told and snitched. It's all fucking lies, Dear Charlotte!

But, no, the idea still rests in the sand of thought as time stopped to allow the mind to think.

The war like wonder is bread for mediocrity, a Fox for the lackluster, a ball-and-chain bitch for the swollen words of flattened minds, knee-deep in the depth of a dismal attitude.

This is real! and no one is afraid.

This is told! and no one is afraid

This is! and no one is afraid.

And no one is afraid. and no one is afraid. and no one is afraid.

And no one is afraid.

And only I am afraid of the scuff-mark, the width of patronage and height of lineage.

And why aren't you, my daughters, my lovers, my sinners?

Coltrane's alto strongarm should have been a warning...

Dylan's keyless croon should have been a warning.

But the mentality of the cloaked or crucified is to not believe in Lazarus and his flight from spectrum with a god of man of god at his helm, at his hull, at his throat, at his feet, in his hands, in my thoughts, in my toes, in my face and nose and mouth.

But you merely pretend to notice that anything moves, that life is a changing myraid, a lost yellow in a sea of green and blue.

As his guts spilled out upon the inverse-ocean's floor, the sand kept it as its own, clinging to the moisture, more thirsty than the coward. Some were afraid, but they were all dead, and now there was one with a problem: his entrails had burst forth with fury from his belly as if they had to say something...

What are you saying? I cried.

Silence.

What are you? I cried.

Silence.

Will I ever? I cried.

Silence.

And so he picked up and gathered the red and the church organs and trotted on, hearing the bell toll in the distance.

Clamped in the warning tone, the fire hit the water when the building collapsed.

And collapse, it did, O Father.

The non-fake neo-speak of the menial convention faced the kite so idyllic and free like the lap-dance luncheon served by a horse of needles in the banquet hall of the agnostic anti-thought as the puss granules fought against something archaic. C'est la Vie, my dear brethren.

Life is hot and cold and front and rear and near and far and aft and political and starboard and true and questionable and graphic and sadistic and masochistic and musical and quiet and meaningful and pointless and left and right and up and down.

The lexicon of the putrid fight drove on for miles, it fought against turning its back and walking on water and knowing truth. Knowing indecision is not to know at all like eyes that open and close only to remain bloodshot and obviously ontent unlike the analogous and sterile animal.