The Erotic Dream of Miley Cyrus 5

Then they reappeared, lying upon the floor of a dingy cell. A man in furs approached and they rose into the air. He grabbed them, one in each hand, and wielded them as a shield. Against the noise.
   He was in a state of anxiety. He was losing consciousness. He dropped to his knees, oppressed, and helpless with self reproach.
   He held himself aloof, as though he had been blotted out by a dark stain.
   We then saw him riding desperately on horseback, still clutching the shit encrusted bats. His eyes were fixed intently, upon what target I know not and fear that he was likewise ignorant of his cause. He rode at such great speed that the faecal shrouds were stripped from the bats, followed by their skins, which, together with those of the man and the horse, flailed about in the air behind them as they rode onward, twining and untwining into a form that resembelled an animated paper ball and finally unravelling to reveal a sphere of light.
   This was the catalytic fuel.
   From it was born a child of blood, who let out a most hideous cry. It was Alice, who flared up like a candle, although her face was wreathed in laughter.
   I shook her hand and she, in turn, looked me up and down. Her hands were cold as ice and her stomach palpitated as though she was ready to heave.
   From between her lips there slowly spun a helical web and as her mouth gaped I thought I saw a chasm filled with stars.
   She chomped at the web with her tiny teeth, breaking it down into irregular pieces, as golden blood flowed.
   She unfastened her robe and removed it, then lay upon the ground face up, as though she wished to sleep, but instead drew a hand gun.
   Undaunted, children ran in and formed a ring about her, then danced gaily in a circle as they sang.
   One stooped, in passing, and took a nipple into its mouth to suckle, then immediately collapsed, as though death itself had been siphoned from the teat.
   Things, however, were not what they seemed.
   I snatched the pistol from Alice and armed myself with it. I looked around cautiously and saw that some kind of stage had been erected before me. A car drew up and from it stepped a lady who approached me and folded a hand over mine, reassuringly.
   I was gripped by a comforting sense of magical nostalgia. The lady stood casually to one side and peeled an orange, then squeezed the juice onto her breast and spread it around with her fingers, painting a design upon her skin.
   When she had finished she whinnied with laughter and left, as all the props were lifted into the air and borne away, leaving a single cell, without windows or doors.
   A canonball dropped from above and shattered, revealing a skull, which rose gracefully into the sky, as light as a kite, trailing a mysterious long thread.
   I felt a touch and realised she was back, only this time she was almost twice her size, in fact, she was quite colossal.
   Her presence excited and ennervated me. I was a butterfly, basking in the warmth of her glow. I rose, sparkling, into the moonlight air.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 5

Initially, the discharge forms isolated droplets that are not so very threatening, but gradually spurts with building vigour until it builds to torrents, flooding everything.
   There is one mound of the stuff, however, that particularly attracts my attention and I plough into it without regard, uncovering a plastic shopping bag that contains a costume; a costume that combines elements of the scholar's robe and the garb of Pulcinella, which emits colour in the form of light.
   A ladder now reaches into the sky and in my new outfit I endeavour to climb it, laughing in the face of the lightning that seems to want to frighten me back.
   I rise into a hole that rends the sky and discover that I have entered a capacious golden balloon. As if on cue, a wind now grips the balloon, but it is like no wind I have ever known, because the grip itself and the movement it provokes are more evocative of a giant hand, lifting the balloon and placing it down again.
   I now look around and see that the girl with the zigzag scars is here, at least I think it is her. She is wrapped around with sky blue ribbons and sits, isolated, in a corner, and as I look in her direction the balloon is enveloped by a strange illumination. She seems to be brooding, but what is it that she wants?
   I approach her and start to slowly peel the bindings away, handling the ribbons with sensitivity, as though I don't want her to notice that I am removing them. I perceive that she is perhaps blushing. Her hands are bound and it would appear she no longer has legs, but as I free her from this egg shaped cocoon I realise she has become a bird, or to be more precise, a human, angel, eagle hybrid.
   At once I mount her and we take flight, through the clouds to the site of ruins I presume are the ones about which I had been forewarned. However, all forms here are transient: at once in a state of collapse, or buried beneath the soil, and simultaneously whole, or full of life. One moment I may see a thing in all its glory, the next it is as likely to lie shattered, destroyed. Sun and moon likewise alternate rapidly, but without the discomfort of strobing light. It is in fact my head that flashes in concord, like a Belisha beacon — on when it is dark, off when there is daylight, and the sequencing is such that it is never truly dark.
   Through the flickering light I see projections of text, poems, quaint drawings and photographed memories. The walls are weeping blood into pools and slow moving streams. Church bells toll noon.
   Somewhere amidst these ruins, within a place of concealment, there is a void. This void contains another, and within this there is another, and on, until an exit point is found, and it is at this juncture that I believe I will find the Book of Lies.
   Muffled drums can be discerned, and would appear to be beckoning me inward. The belly is open and nothing can block my descent, but am I moving towards the mind or the anus?
   Fleshy spheres swell and burst to reveal, firstly Ubu, in black, then Gyron, in red, Pile, in green and Cotise, in blue. Ubu starts to declaim his verse in a voice that recalls the gutteral flush of a toilet: "If nights are taboo but work contrite try hard to hallucinate harp's purr fat thus howling forces heart ride home thus knives recorded art spot crack. An invite in black, in a rock left from up fall, is party base average. Avoid."
   All four characters start to turn on their axes and tear through the organs, the flesh and the bones, in an act of total carnage. They leave behind them an unidentifiable odour. It seems madness itself has been set free.
   But those free wheeling bodies are now drawing me in. I feel I am being pulled towards a ritual space, as the road through which I pass is lined with figures depicting gods.
   A light above my head defines an opening, and it is towards this that I ascend.