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in the burning sky of Egypt i met this boy and that boy. they were all precluded to be met by me. we showered in the sun of the burning pot that lay on the grass by the Temple of Death. our hands were souked, they were sake, perhaps even distilled in the burning sun of Egypt, the Mother of The Faraoh Kliptih The III, mainstream media of the West.
our hands were clear of the blue waters of The Sea of Blood that penetrated the horizon with VeriZon and kept us busy with the kiwi diving. the bus stopped at the edge of the water and to wonderfully beautiful creatures crept out to be swallowed by the burning sand and kept on the fringe of water for eternity. however, umbrella of protecting deity, hand that holds the pendalum of sovereignity, kept staring in the vacant space between me and my body.
i wasn't sure if the blue surface of the water was staring inwards. to pity it was to abandon oneself to deliriums of wolf-eaters, but only sexy creatures kept themselves alive by devouring sand that slipped through their burning fingers that were pointing inwards in the depths of the Hell with all their angels happily ever after eating flesh of burning babies savouring their skeletal deformities, relinquishing... ah, it doesn't matter. the wave comes and washes the shore, my feet ar burried in the minds of berries and it comes to be known as the sedation of Sigurtney Ross, tho ruler of the unknown, the perturbing sinusoid of "never the less".
it is this bulimia that keeps repeating itself, never ceising to believe in one's true identity as proclamation of Sundance Festival. it is this sublime creation of ongoing delusion that keeps us profane and self-indulgent, creating our own images of the devil without skin that promises but never delivers milk or without milk, image of without image. the only thing that stays on top of a pile of tom-tom's is inevitably let ashore the missile carrier Albert The Great.
and it is with this stylized red Barbican that the Red Army comes out of the Waters of Babylon and says in a clearly distinguishable voice - wash yourselves, ye disturbing creations of madness and void. do as you ar told or be obliterated in the Tolik of underwater bunkers of Bangok after the day breaks into tears from flying sepulcers. and knowing teachers will tell lies about beatnik who ate his own hat to prove nothing to noone. the concrete zoo, the ephemere sand dust and dust of the burning sand. i said - solve yourselves and abandon hope, only true believers will feel flesh on their toes and will dance thus in times to come, and eat their newborn babys without feeling hunger ever after the march of Beatles.
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then you should i vernicular when waves become mountains. when a cut wave is a dissected dino, when i sea bright light coming from wino. i crush in to pillow with enormous pity i elevate myself from water skiing. i see myself
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so much water, so precious stone. i jump in the upload button and splash myself with lust.
it is not to be confused with the mountain on the shore where the stone sits as a Telemonik Monk and sips his own shoulders and knees. i sit on a bench by the boiling sea, i see myself clearly in my own image, and i know that knowledge of oneself is knitted it the pink of the sky.
i mountain you sky, i live your life for you, so that you can be mine. we levitate on top of each other and i think i know you, you know me by thinking red, and devil is a crab, boiling water for spirits.
so much to say about so little. so little to say about space in between. when to bodies collide in a rocked propelled infinitum of conjectures, we spill our blood, and our guts tells stories of two lives, lived in a bucket of water or spacious as they may seem, little is known about party on the fourt floor of the month of May.
i drink blood of siblings, a taste the bone on my teeth. i like traffic lights, they tell the whole storry. red is wine, green is eternal suffering and yellow is a cab that takes you to the home of crabs. i like sea creatures, they are mine completely. i know how to live among creatures of the sea, the ear and the anderwater earth.
lines on your face are lines on the rock. rock is always wavering, it likes ephemeral things like sand and rock'n'roll that never utters a sound, never says a word that is not behind the pages of Bible, the pages of Kw'n'ran, the biblical deity of prolonged ejaculation.
we all swim in the sperm of a wale of non-entities, we all drink the intestinal air of crawling creatures of Mars. and we like to feel eternal, because thus we see a line from the sky showing correlation between solid and liquid, gas-like creations of Mars-like Mothers and Fathers of The Sand of ever-marching pigmey, self-righteous, non-loving siluettes of Monstrous Beauty.
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shores of appocalypse divided by a mole. my feet are standing on a placenta of innocence and i am wavering with the wind of fishbones. we all see through lying wales that sell as pigmentation. we all need to know. without it there is no it, only multiple It's and sun-burned faces like sand-paper that touches the hanging gardens of proliferated Eden or conglomerated siluettes of mice and versa.
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you sexy animal with a french colonial flag on your belly delivered to your door by milk-post-man postmodern-woman-the-baby-carrier bag on your shoulder and your fine slim legs pertruding, pushing their way to it-ness, very specific noun to denounce your equality and right to be heard by bearers of truth. who knows how many of us will be there on the day of 1st June.
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lidinās peles un mausi un klausi, ko tev saka pa pakausi tek upe ūdens satek visās drupačās un kačā sašas bērna dienu mērci pumpī dārzā sakrautās uz ķiršiem gobelēna tases. sēž jūrnieks jūras malā krasi pagriež galvu aizsnaužas un staipa apkārt karūsu aiz ūsām varbūt iekodīsies. ko es te muldu. es skatos jūras virzienā, raujas pretim radošās rokas, un klaustrofobs ar dunci sejā meklē lidaparāta eļļu. esiet skaidri savā rīcībā un atpestiet no ļauna, jo tikai druknais muktupāvels sapratīsies ar redīsiem.
es esmu eļļas tarakāns un manas blusas kustas lēni pa ekrāna pētersīļiem un galvas gaļu skapis dauzās. es redzu ēru, kurā smērē galvu iekšā durvvirū. un klausās lēti baraviku kungi pēc laidara un sveces. es kāzas iemūrēju sienā ar lidojošu sēni. un batuts izskatās kā zudis, kad tam aptumšojas prāts, tas laižas kurpniekam pie sejas un izsakās. tas bļauj un spļauj un kurpēs gānās lodāmura amor amor.
krokodīla kurpēm kājās sejas vaibsti rājas. es redzu nākam kārtējo viesi ar dienu pie rokas un nakti uz sloksnes, kuras spīdīgajās lietuvēna varās gaida klaipēdēns un diņķis. mēs klusi vērsimies uz sienām un pēcpadomju amorfizēti skaudīgi un vainīgi biedējošā dažādībā likvidētā ķīlā.
es nevienmērīgs lidaparāts košs ar acu ēnām sejas kuš, un stropa parādītais ilgvilns ir pēcpuse ar krustu. daiļš dziedonis uz ērkšķogas ar varu rautin rauj uz pinkšķi un trubadūra dūriens pierē izsējis ir maisiņus pa kokiem. es kādreiz gāju licejā un ticu, ka kādreiz tas man pretim nāks ar saspārdītu purnu bumbā slēptu kaukurus ar arklu vāks ar daiļamatniecības cirvi kaplēs luksoforu lustras ar mani paņems svētu mieru izkaisītā bezabrāzijā. |
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sūds uz mušas koku zāģē atspēries pret tušu un garās dienas garām brāžas redeļgultas krusā. |
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hei, resnie, sadodieties rokās, jums tulznas pulsē. |
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