Photo by AR Walther And it was the crack of a symmetrical dawn
lepers hanging clothes with no sleeves
legless pants
heartless armor
the sieve where all the heart pulp runs through and through
straining the anguish with a lightning-tied spoon
4-leaf clovers come raining from the sky
and he drives his Mercedes into a crowd of 12 oblivious jabberjaws
The madman drank tea laced with the rosaria radiation
and now he’s a drunk moose on the loose
toting way too much baggage
and dulled antlers spit-shined by the man in the moon
that circle of meteor-pocked cheese
that rolls through the sparkly galaxy
all around our human minutia of dawn and pain and anguish
and slices of Snow White’s poisoned apple pie
and every alien addict crop circle
spins like witches’ eyes
on a psychedelic trip in some thick, green forest
chasing Hansel and Gretel with an electric staple gun
collating the folds of their skin like clockwork
and the tears shed in the hills
rush down like the world’s greatest flood
disaster ten-fold obtuse
those angels of deceit, lavished with wet, weepy memories
and the passion that burned like the most vicious lava
And there’s a fat, orange Koi fish
swimming in a pool so circular and blue
and every dirt heap is but another mountain
to rip your crampons into
and climb to Heaven
to spit in the face of God’s guard of Oz
then singing a melancholy yet smashing tune
about the blindness he feels and sees
toward forgiveness and love and inequality by the ocean
the composer from Beach Bum and Rum California
ever etching his mind into the wires that run rampant
amongst the drunks, the princess poets
and all their invisible beings on Pad Street
the place with no signs for hands
or a pen in which to paint
the eternal ache
of holding on
to bare bones
and no flesh
in the sinister quiet
of lonely places
like the foggy docks
or the steamy forests
or the buggy riverside
with all its ebbing currents
preaching the sermon of beautiful emptiness
in harmony with the dirt, the love, the wet life
the chiseled core drips down through the dusty siphon
of all these tubular engines whizzing by
the sights of all minds buttered and plastered into holes
that mean street brick and wooden coffeehouse,
a quiet, cradling tram ride to Cardiff,
staring out the window, with no warmth or warning of her
CEREAL AFTER SEX 