Lucifer Landing II

There is a barren beige opening A making of silt and sod making up the wasteland “I” am no longer necessary as no one is in sight Perhaps “I”, too, do not exist And for that, I speak in we We, of objects, of alliterations, of architectures breathing Pulsing of fractal imageries and quelching climaxes A cough is less a disturbance More a sign of life – accidents as natural, as nature, as none Home, Home, Home, is what dreams concoct Lullabies of easy rocking under cotton knit and mother’s milk Mmh, mhmhmhm No embrace precludes the trappings of material life Bodies of scorn, sequestered, undone for the maturation of man, He The original sin Made in the eye of a God, Let us be forsaken As none of us ARE good, Nor innocent?

I am a mirage Make me dance and drink and fuck Until preoccupations confuse me to believe in self-control In autonomy In love mused in the manifestations of mine alone, Naivete will be the death of the angelic And the wicked No martyrs remain in the bondage of contemporary life, The bitter feedback of solemnity reveal unto me that I have been another fool of hope, hope, hop, pop Fool to the hallmark of the commons How would I not see the price tag attached to the appendages of my flesh? To the whom of my grandmother’s ovaries? To the saplings bred from the seeds scented of salt and thatch And cane once grounded in the follicles of her hair? We, as in now, remain in the tumult Amnesia is steady like the boil of tea Drink up, sweety A chronicle, A litany of nothing I need to touch your touch touching me

How real am I under here the touch touches tucking back like folded newspapers or a tuft of hair or rubber band balls, the core broke, knotted entangled waste. Can we find the waste? Can we unravel the knots or can the cannots or do nothing at all, is it working? The reminding tumble you can hear it you can’t hear it when you can’t feel it if it’s touching us. How close to an understanding of unraveling toothpaste tubes would actually help unjam the soda machine? The scientific method teaches us this much: To ask lots of questions. There are no bad questions, only good fucks It’s always good for whom to have more information? You can never do enough research when you already know you’re dead and dying. Is my colon showing? If they died yesterday would we be at our funeral? Can caring less do more? Can the tree hear me? Can the cheese remember her mother’s udder? Don’t forget me. I already forgot you hurt my heart Enter me Enter me Enter me Enter me Enter me Enter me