The Erotic Dream of Miley Cyrus 1 (second slight revision)

Truth is said to be stranger than fiction but, notwithstanding the very real distances that separate the corporeal fluctuations of, say, a walk in the park with a favoured hound and the implausible modes of communication occasioned by the use a lease, I have come to realise that truth can never be anything other than fiction. Let me explain:

I will start with my nose. Not a small nose by any account, and, at this time of year, quick to chill, which is why I came up with the idea for a nose warmer. It is long and dangly and looks quite preposterous, like a flopsy strap-on, but it is durable, and you can drop hot coals into it.
    When I wore it for the first time it brought to mind the erotic dream of Miley Cyrus. I said I'd explain:

Miley Cyrus recently had an erotic dream, and I was in it, yet not on account of my hot nose, that had nothing to do with it.
   Miley and I go way back, from when I was stationed down the mall and training to catch rabbits.
   'Four horns are better than one!' she enthused, when she called to tell me about it, and I couldn't agree more. It all started, she said, when she tried to polish my wheels. She was needing to use more spittle than she would have liked, and had become quite dry, so she got this idea that if she tugged on my nipples she might get some lubricant, and it just sort of took off from there. I shan't bore you with the details.

Afterwards, she took me for a walk, probably in the hope that I would catch her something to eat. But then apparently I just disappeared. She found herself swimming somewhere, and not so very far away was a green rose, suspended just above the water, almost close enough for her to reach.

Well this recollection set me to thinking.
   I'd heard tell of an island in Africa, where there are people who eat wild horses as they run. I went there. My guide was Tiyu, who would be considered a true beauty on any side of the globe. When she wasn't looking I stole beads from her gown, and where I dropped them down grew.
   I wanted never to see her eyes lose their lustre, even if that meant I should die there. So I went to petition the trees she had emerged from, and bashed my hammer; bashed it on the ground, which brought down Hooli-Ma. He showed me his treasures, and his kidneys on strings, and I said, "Hooli-Ma! Let's go eat" for it seemed an age since I had last done so. But as we walked the disquieting squelch that came from his boots made me reconsider, as I was fast losing my appetite.
   "Ahem!" I spluttered "I need to disappear into the bushes" and Hooli-Ma gave me a look that suggested he knew exactly what I meant, and I gave him a look by return that said I knew he knew exactly what I meant, even though I didn't mean that at all. What I actually meant was that I needed to disappear, into the bushes, in the hope that I might find Tiyu again.
   So he stood there waiting as I headed into the thicket, which was dense, and hard to penetrate, but started to thin when I was out of view, until the shrubbery turned to small trees with twigs of fire, which were easier to pass through, even though they streaked my flesh with long, thin burns.
   From a short way ahead I started to hear groans, as of someone immensely weary, and advanced in the direction from which I thought the sounds came, soon perceiving a dark figure lying prostrate on the ground.
   She was The Keeble. She was weary, and had fallen. Her flesh was soft, and she wanted me to push a finger into her navel. I did so, and felt the tickling roll of tiny motors from behind her skin.
   "Mammaries" she called weakly through her agony, but I hadn't a clue what she wanted. Must I suckle her, or grope her, or did she want my breasts to suckle and grope, as unlikely as that seemed?
   "Mammaries" she called again, as she bit the end off her own finger and showered me with the milk that gushed from the wound, at which she started to steadily recover her composure, and then she leapt into the air and away, leaving in her place a cryptic note.
  
   "It is a book that lies apart,
   and passes through the
   Scripted Ruins" the note said.

Ahead of me was the hollowed trunk of a tree, and calculating that the slimy coating of milk I had received would be sufficient to lubricate my passage, I dived headlong into it, and down I slid, as though I was passing through a digestive tract.
   As I slid speedily downward I felt a loud, ominous thump against the trunk, as though it had been struck by something heavy, but I detected no creature in pursuit, and safely continued to slide face first, until I came to an opening that gave onto an area of thick, dense fog; so dense that it actually served to break my fall.
   When I had recovered my senses I started to walk, but aside from the reduced visibility the vegetation around me had also started to rapidly grow, and was soon so dense that I could no longer venture forward, only upward, and it was thus that I started to climb the sturdiest sprout, recalling a story I had once heard.

Upwards and upwards, from branch to bough, until I counted myself many, many meters above the ground, at which point I became aware of a glow, cutting through the fog above my head, and I thought this might indicate a window above, or even a door.
   As I continued, I saw more clearly, and started to notice that there were sleighs hanging from branches, where reindeer were moored, nibbling at the leaves, and I gradually came to perceive that I was approaching some sort of gaily lit grotto, from which, upon my approach, all sorts of ghosts and specters started to flood, as though afraid, followed by a large bubble of water, at the centre of which beat a translucent heart, at the centre of which beat another, smaller, but quite opaque.

I had a strong desire to slap the bubble, to see if it would burst. Instead, I decided to hug it, but as I did this, I perceived that the entity was starting to identify me as its mother, and believed I could feel it trying to suckle a nipple, even the bite of its watery mouths—or was that simply the impression of cold? Whatever, I succumbed, until blood was drawn, and the whole experience became intolerably painful, at which point I squeezed, then it burst.

It vapourized, leaving two hearts clinging to my teats. They darted this way and that across my chest, leaving bloody lacerations, but as my blood leaked, so did it drain from the hearts, which became quite transparent.

They now sprouted tails, which whipped my chest, as my stomach lurched. At the centre of each of the hearts there was a book, and the hearts themselves had started to move all over my body, as though they were checking that I was real.

So absorbed was I by this process that I failed to notice the two men who had approached me, passing to either side, each grasping one of my arms, and carrying me onward between them.

However, as we advanced, it slowly dawned on me that it was I who was carrying them along.

As we walked we gathered momentum, until they started to spin like cartwheels, but when I stopped they shattered, into diamond shards like stars.

A clatter of whispers effervesced through my mind. A name: was it Nina?

Rocks tumbled from above onto my head and shoulders, then everything around me started to collapse and I started to fall, to who knows where.

When I landed, it was with a bump, which made my bum sore, and I saw that I was sat upon a shingle beach, onto which the sea rolled. A boat full of fisherman was rowing toward the shore, with someone held captive between them. When they landed they disembarked awkwardly, as though they might be lost in a dream, and I saw quite distinctly that the person they had been transporting was the anti-christ, Ubu.

From his mouth emerged a purple bubble. It expanded until it encompassed him.

One of the fishermen started to ring a small handbell. This made me jump. The bubble formed a cocoon around Ubu. It floated into the sky, as though emptied and light.

His captors spun beneath him from the chains they had used to bound him, and although the freedom he enjoyed as he floated into the distance may have been illusory, he carried his captors away.

Together in the distance they formed a constellation. It is the constellation that is now known as The Bubble.

I turned away and bound like a moonlight deer, this way and that; over rivers and through trees, until the blue light reappeared, although the balance between day and night remained unstable.

But think again. The evidence is right before us.

As I concentrated on the distant display, a priest sneaked up on me from behind and swiftly decapitated me. My head rose, as a new sun, while my own world was darkness only.

As my head floated adrift I felt roots connect it to my body, much as life and death refuse to detach entirely from each other, and with this in mind I let out a peal of laughter.

Seven silver unicorns, signifiers of purity, passed through the darkness, up and down, appearing random in their motion, yet held together by an unfathomable design.

Through a distant red glow my body departed, away with the reindeer, and I was beset by sadness.

A pretty girl stood near the corpse. She wore an animal skin. There was a flashing EXIT sign. I was connected to my body by an umbilicus.

A flash of sunlight blinded me. I started to sprout.

I rose into the clouds. Lightning crackled through my hair. Each bolt was a different hue.

Water cascaded down my brow and face. I floated freely, feeling happy to do so. Until I received a blow to the mouth.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 7

The animals come out of hiding and follow. I have something I must tell them, but dare I? Truth or Art? That they are simply hollow fabrications, into which I have attempted to pump life, but now the path is flanked by applauding spectators and the commotion is too great for me to indulge in such contemplation. I instead affect the manner of a pantomime artiste. I am the puffed up king, and in this guise I guide my entourage into a large, square room, the front wall and ceiling of which have been removed. At the centre of this space there is a tree laden with the rarest fruit.
   The animals, I now notice, have lost interest and returned, in their various ways, to the places from which they came.
    I therefore approach the tree alone, but to my surprise it rapidly withers and dies, and from the mulch that remains flow two thin tributaries, at the apex of which is revealed a solitary acorn. This opens as a floral vagina. I am afraid.
   A hatchway opens in the ground and from within there rises a grinding noise, as of some horrendous machine. I allow myself a long moment of deep reflection. Then, with a sudden and unassailable terror, I turn and flee. I feel that I have thus been immunised in some way. I disappear, yet I retain my physical shape.
   I stop to appreciate the beauty of the artificial paradise that surrounds me. The sun, the moon, the stars, however, start to become indistinguishable from each other, as the qualities that distinguish them start to melt away and they dissolve into a shimmering mist which, to my mind, appears in some ways sacred. Through this mist I maybe see a distant place of anguish, lit, it would seem, by flashes of lightning; the vestiges of memories concealed.
   I can make out a train of corpses on carts with, at their head, a wagon filled with gold. A priest approaches the pile of gold. He loudly pronounces a single word, "Stay", with a roar so penetrating that the golden bars are striated by the force of the sound, forming golden teats which he tugs on with delight, the fingers of one hand teasing out powdered bone, whilst those of the other draw blood.
   He lets his arms drop to his sides as he observes an oppressive silence, while the discharge of the teats is stolen away by an invisible hand, as though they had been torn from a picture of the land upon which they had fallen.
   What we see now is a man chained up within a dingy cell. A girl in black oversees his torment. In a dreamy way she tugs at a piece of string that opens and closes a trapdoor above their heads. They crane their necks to see through it and watch the aerobatics in the sky: a passing Zeppelin; an astronaut, dipping and diving through low clouds; a machine that floats through the air, and upon which stuffed birds perch and twitter, the overall sense of which scene is distorted by the aimless meandering of sponges.
   A gift descends from the heavens, in the shape of a heavy rain of blood. The girl and the chained man tremble with desire, though each holds aloof from the other.
   He recovers more quickly than her from his spasms and makes a lunge for her frock, where he locates the key and, unfastening his chains, darts through the door through which she had entered and makes his escape on horseback, while she crosses the floor and exits through the opposite door.
   In the room she now enters is a boy around seven years of age. In his hand he clutches a snake he has just caught. The girl grips his penis though the material of his trousers. Here is the source of magic. Songbirds alight to either side of them as she draws out his penis and milks from it a stream of blood, which the birds fly to and sip. He stares straight ahead, as though he were staring into the void, and as the flow of blood is depleted so does he diminish until he is no more than a point, a full stop, at which he disappears. The full stop is now the final point of a letter that lies upon the floor. The girl stoops and lifts the letter. She leaves.
   I feel dizzy and nauseous. I shiver from cold. My stomach is gripped by a violent peristalsis. I ejaculate through my mouth. As the pale droplets hit the floor they burst into light before they die.
   I drop the book and it falls open, revealing that there are whole pages that have been removed and others from which extracts have been cut.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 6

Here then, are Gyron, Pile and Cotise - mechanised wind-up toys of tin, with tiny wings and flat, resounding feet. They are a distraction and too late I see that the ring of light has become a ring of blood, towards which I am pulled, or am I being sucked?
   As I pass through the opening I become filled with trepidation. I cannot decide whether I would rather turn back and pursue the three Palotins or continue to the other side, especially as the first thing I see is a guard on horseback, tearing towards me, swinging his baton, with the quite evident purpose of frightening me and driving me back.
   I pull away, so as to avoid his blow, but when I look again I see a spinning wheel of letters, which suddenly stops, tossing a single letter into the air, towards a gaping pink mouth, and this, I realise, is the aperture through which I am destined to pass, and the guard's sole purpose is to prevent me from doing so, although when he returns I find I am able to pacify him with a few  simple words, although I have no idea what force inspired me to utter them, 'Truth the face of demand; of favour controlled by ritual fate' at which his rage is sucked right out of him and up into the gaping mouth, towards which I have resolved to head.
   As it is drawn in, ejaculate is spouted out, much as sea water is forced from the blowhole of a whale, and as I alight upon the surface of this new world and gain confidence from the guard's weakened state, a quick jab from the heel of my boot is sufficient to shatter his image into celestial points of light, which crash like breakers at the edge of the sea, at which, seeking to further illustrate this metaphor, resonant voices slowly intone, 'Breaking'.
   Now, I feel, is the time to make my move, so I leap into the mouth, and thus am I forced, as a newborn, straight out of the anus of god, clutching to my breast a sacred book. Maybe it has knowledge to convey? 
   I am encased within an amniotic sac, the skin of which resembles that of a grape, and thus I gracefully descend, without extravagant display. I have embraced my destiny. I am a cold sun, brandishing a contagion of words, intended only for the eyes of those who fake. Lightly, I touch upon earth once again.
   I have landed in a palace room, where a young girl drops to her knees in rapture before me and starts to prey. She blushes deeply, and that can only be on account of something playing through her mind, as her eyes are so far lowered that she would be unable to bear witness to anything that might occur before her. Whereas, through the window behind her, I see guards on horseback pass, riding quickly across the drawbridge and into the castle. The sun is high, but is being steadily blocked out by fast moving black clouds.
   The girl is suddenly gripped by hysteria and thrashes about, emitting raucous bird noise. A lightning flash briefly floods the palace room with dazzling light, pinning her to the ground and branding her; it penetrates her heart as it attempts to reach cold earth far below. She is subsequently split in two. In the outlines of the ash, which is all that remains, and seems composed of iron filings, is inscribed a sign, a pair of horizontal lightning bolts.
   I step into the centre of the seal and find myself in a meadow with the same girl curled naked at my feet, and I feel we are conjoined by a mysterious psychological power.
   We are together in the game, at the onset of a labyrinth. However, she appears to have been stripped of any ability to follow. Her body seems quite devoid of life. I must depart alone.
   Tiny bubbles rise from between her lips, as though she were under water, and as I take these in my hand and pocket them she disappears. I start to run.
   The path I have chosen slopes upward, describing a zigzag, and I run at such an accelerated pace that my breath forces its way from my chest in hiccups of laughter.
   The path of a sudden diverges, and here is a well, from which leap a ring of seahorses, carrying between them a crown, which they let drop, skilfully, onto my head, and as they swim away through the air it binds itself to my scalp.
   I stand motionless, waiting, and day turns to night. A nightingale has built a nest of tinsel, acorns, flowers, extinguished candles and gold leaf, upon the crossbeam of the well, and this I gently lift, to place it on my shoulder, along with the bird, which continues to sing gaily. I walk now with a step that is lighter, and more free.

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.

The Erotic Dream of Miley Cyrus 4

Suddenly, I was awakened and discovered that I was stretched upon a couch in a therapy room, whilst an analyst stood before me, with arms extended, palpitating my sides and observing the way that I was breathing.
   Satisfied, he took a palette of colours from beside him and started to paint my face. At the corners of my eyes he painted tears of blood. He felt my chin for stubble. He started to mould my face like plasticine. He would shape for me the perfect face.
   Next, he concentrated on rearranging my body. Firstly, he plumped me up, and then he patted me down: fat then thin then fat then thin. I started to rise, free from my physical trappings. I was an oak.
   The Psych laid offerings of food and flowers at my roots. My bark opened out to reveal the interior of a small theatre. The front of the stage was lined with little people who waited patiently in anticipation of receiving a gift. The Psych removed them one by one, pinching the napes of their necks. He set them down before him and started to tell them a story: 'Once upon a time we walked together through a forest, hand in hand.' There was something in my mind, but could I bear to speak out? Truth or Art? That those around me were simply hollow fabrications into which I had pumped life. But I was distracted as I listened to him speak and imagined us passing through an avenue flanked by applauding spectators. I affected the demeanour of a pantomime artiste. I was the puffed up king.
   Before us was a large, square room with no ceiling and one missing wall. Into this I guided my faithful entourage. We were greeted by a woman, tall, lithe and fair. I was fascinated by her, but the others clearly were not. One by one they each drifted back in the direction from whence they had come and when the woman herself attempted to approach me she suddenly collapsed to the floor, quite dead, and started to rapidly decay.
   From the place she had fallen there flowed two thin rivulets which stretched like arms towards me. At their apex a solitary acorn poked from the ground, opening out to reveal a child. I was afraid.
   A hatchway opened in the floor before me and from below rose the grinding sound of a horrendous machine.
   I froze and took a long moment of deep reflection. That done, I felt the brief perception of a chill breath upon me. I felt, furthermore, as though I was ready to take my own life. I laid down upon the grass.
   From behind me I heard the beeping of an earth moving machine reversing. It was trying to tip me into the hole, like a coin into a money box.
   At this point everything started to blur. However, I could perceive, in the distance, a place of anguish, lit, it seemed, by flashes of lightning.
   Memories that had been concealed rose to the surface of my mind. A peasant house in which a very aged couple stood, hand clasped in hand, before an altar. From their free hands they each released a bat then called out "Stay!" at which command the bats froze, suspended in the air. The couple then grasped the bats like stones and hurled them with a mighty force, as though they were missiles, through an open window, towards the distant town, which they entered via the jaws and passed right through, to the anus, from which they made their exit, covered in excrement, floating freely in the night sky, unattainable. Suddenly, they were snatched away, as though they had been torn from view.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 4

A moonlight deer bounds this way and that, over rivers and between trees, until the blue light returns. Although the balance between day and night remains unstable.
   But think again. The evidence is right before us.
    Whilst I am enraptured by the visions and the silence the children sneak in around me and swiftly lop off my head, which rises as a sun, while my own world view remains one of darkness only.
   As my head floats away I feel roots connect it to my body and life and death will not detach from each other, so I let out a peal of laughter.
   Silver unicorns, signifying purity, pass through the darkness. Up and down, mimicking the rise and fall of celestial bodies, appearing random in motion, but held in unity by an unfathomable design, and as they start to dimly radiate I feel purified and youthful once again, as though reborn, innocent as a child.
   I turn my head and see my body, naked. I shut my eyes and vomit to the ground and  when I open them again my body stands, now dressed in a pastel blue t-shirt with an image of a dinosaur upon it and a suit of deepest black. My pose is relaxed, unaffected, candid, and I feel that I am in some way soiled, as though the gaze to which I am exposed is in some way inappropriate; as though I was being studied to determine my sex.
   I am washed, as an infant would be, and a resounding slap upon my arse cheek sends me leaping, into a cot, which may just as easily be a coffin. I dangle, as though suspended from a string, and thus am I tethered to my female counterpart. An angel? A work of fiction? Is she real? Nonetheless, I am floating freely and feel happy to do so, until I receive a blow to my mouth.
   It is a freshly plucked heart, and blood drips down my chin. My own heart is now exposed, as though I was Our Lady.
   I start to whistle, in the same way as a kettle when it announces that it is ready.
   She comes at me in a storm of angelic light. The air crackles like shifting ice. Her hair seems to sing. She is everything. She wants me, but is it love? She throws herself upon me and we roll.
   Her demeanor is simultaneously wanton, coy, open and censorious, as she peels aside her clothing suggestively then conceals herself again, spreading and unspreading, in a coquettish yet childlike way. I pull out a telescope with the intention of examining with greater intimacy the minutest particulars of her beauty.
   No holds are barred and I savour every detail, especially those places that are typically regarded with modesty. Her flesh weeps roseate tears. A wind that rises straight from the earth turns these droplets to rivulets then to a flood that threatens to submerge this land, and through which swim a team of sea horses, then a sailing boat. As they pass she floats into the air and upon the water.
   A line of fish floats past. They appear to be bound together, pursued by a naked baby who is trying to catch the one at the back, though as it swims its limbs detach then float upwards and away, until all that remains is a sphere.
   This is the sun and the líquid vapourises as new life starts to emerge. The air is now a crimson fog.
   A phallus has risen from the ground and now uproots itself and rises into the sky, where the fog condenses upon it in droplets of dew. The liquid thus formed has an astounding brilliance, whilst the penis spits venom and in this way seeks to debase everything.

The Erotic Dream of Miley Cyrus 3

These ruins contain a secret: a book of lies, which also acts as its heart.

The skins moved. They bent and folded, they formed into spheres and rose as balloons. They steadily floated, with deliberation, in a direction I felt compelled to follow.
    The belly was open to me, and there was no obstacle that would prevent me from entering, but there was also no way to determine whether I was travelling toward the neck, and beyond that the mind, or whether I was passing through to the anus.
   The flesh balloons had become heavier and descended to the ground, rolling away then bursting to reveal Gyron, in a flash of red, Pile, with sparks of green, Cotise, in a shower of blue, and, ahead of them, a dark, shadowy figure, exceptionally fat in protuberance[. True enough, it was Black Ubu].
   He started to declaim his poetry in a voice that sounded uncannily like the 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 turned and plunged deeper into the belly, causing the utmost damage as they rended organs and bones, leaving behind them an undefinable odour. It seemed that madness itself had been set free.
   Those free ranging bodies drew me in, and it seemed it was a god's hand that guided me within, towards a ritual centre, and I thereby feel protected, the safety of my journey assured.
   A ring of light above my head soon marked an outlet. I rose towards it, as though born on tiny wings, whilst all the while I felt the tug of the ground, as Gyron, Pile and Cotise passed me by, travelling back in the opposite direction. I started to sweat blood.
   My mother's warning rang in my ears: "The saddles of wishes trap the husbands we farm."
   A pulse of sunlight was emitted from the aperture and I was as one transformed: as a bloody fish I was sucked through the pouting mouth. I was a whale, ejaculating: stars into the depths, the firmament. I was buoyed by a wave of voices that slowly intoned: "Breaking." I was a new species of human. My old attachments were now washed away; they burst from the bubble of my skin as a grape dispels its juices. I was filled with the will of a supreme being, embracing my destiny. I was a cold sun, a false eye. I burst.
   I was born away to the region of dreams. Here I sat wearily, my head in my hands. The attendant took a ticket from between my fingers and tore it. There was a long low peal of thunder, as darkness descended.
   The screen lit up and there proceded a vision of the future: a lightning flash, illuminating the body of a woman contained within a cell, who lay naked, shivering, upon the cold earth.
   From out of nowhere a metal booted foot delivered her a swift kick at which she, recovering her composure more quickly than I thought she might, tapped upon the ground three times with the tip of a finger and lifted her head, enabling us to see her face; offering us an insight into her heart and mind, in which could plainly be discerned love, as though the transmission of that signal were her sole purpose.
   Whether owing to the countenance she projected or something within me that yearned, she seemed uncommonly beautiful, and as she rose wings unfurled at her back, although they would be of no use to her in her current state of confinement.
   She turned away from us, looked into a mirror and recognised herself. The mirror itself glowed with the feathered green hues of an Emerald Beauty. She spoke, but we could hear nothing and witnessed only the motion of her lips. Frosted tears adorned the corners and the lower lids of her eyes. She pressed her face to the glass, as though she were peering through a window, then passed into it and beyond, as through the skin of a pool, rising into the sunlight, with water clinging to her body like a gown, and so she disappeared from view.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 3

I pick myself up and approach the feast. Upon closer inspection it becomes clear that the food, which had previously seemed so bright and tempting, is in fact composed of wax or has been carved from wood and painted. It is the sculpted replica of a classic feast, but none of it is real.
   As I move away I become aware of a terrific ululation, which could easily be an echo from my own stomach, as I am feeling the strains of hunger.
   I step onto the train of a long glow that emanates from a window ahead. It conveys a sense of promise.
   However, this feeling is foreshortened as I witness phantoms fleeing out through the window with a hellish warbling din and off into the darkness, as though their aim is to evade a danger I am unable to perceive. Behind them comes JD, waving a ghost-like handkerchief to shoo them away.
   Once he has seen them off he leans out to me, and without a hint of irony, intones 'The tang of wild orange'.
   He gaily waves a sistrum in my face then spins around and makes a swift departure, rattling as he goes, though in his wake he leaves a silence that seems burdened with shame.
   Upon the ground lies another note:

   "Clare behind the statue of
   cupid beasts. Crazed babe, as
   cute and simple power devoted
   to each daily shade of style."

But as I pick it up and head down one of the bifurcating passages I perceive a crowd behind me. They must have come from the other passage.
   I look back and see decapitated men, chickens, quails and other flightless birds advancing quite quickly, but in a clueless way, as they jostle and bump against each other, spilling blood before them.
   'Am I destined to become one of them?' I wonder. If this is to be my fate I cannot accept it.
   The pooling blood thickens and starts to swirl, then disappears into the soil, as down a plug-hole. The air fills with a steam of vermilion hues which condenses upon the walls but is quickly absorbed, as though stolen away, leaving the passage dry, as the last of the blood is sucked into the earth and man and bird collapse, thoroughly drained.
   A heavy "clunk!" as of fallen metal, draws me deeper into the tunnel, where I see distant figures in crimson robes, but all too briefly, as they retreat into the shadows. I pick up a medal from the ground and hang it around my neck. It is a reading award, or, to repeat the legend scored into the flat pane at its back, it is a medal awarded for the Consumption of the Written Word.
   With the medal hung I stand proudly and a two dimensional figure stretches from my torso and emerges from my body. A female child, naked but for silhouettes and shadows, whose first act is to grip my arm and from there feel me over, to make sure that I am real.
   I am so absorbed in this process that I do not notice the two men who have approached and now flank me, each swiftly grasping one of my arms, as they carry me along between them, though as we progress I realise it is in fact I who is leading them, and so fast are we now progressing that they start to spin like cartwheels.
   I decide to pull us to a halt and when I do they lift into the air and coalesce into a solid globe.
   Now I am approached, somewhat apprehensively, by the children I had seen earlier but who by now are feeling courageous enough to lay their hands upon me, the stranger in their midst, and, like the two dimensional girl, probe to see whether I may be real, or an apparition.
   As one, they inhale deeply, then each attempts to insert a slither of bamboo under one of my nails, but as they force it in they disappear, as though they were being sucked into my finger.
   I feel surprisingly little pain and am compelled to lift my arms so that my hands are projecting outwards and from the tips of my fingers I shoot arrows of fire, which turn back to children as they penetrate the ground.
   The keys that they now hold, the keys of binding and of choosing, signify that they are at last free.
  One girl kneels to prey. My heart stands still, I tremble. Someone rings a hand bell. Another takes my hand whilst her friend takes a snapshot.
   Blooms rapidly erupt from all sides of the passageway until its hideous walkways are concealed beneath bright and colourful flowers and from the hearts of these gush fountains of blood, milk and "water".
   I feel intoxicated but equally succumb to drowsiness. I stretch my palms before me like a blind man as I dream.
   Three sharp blows serve to shape the darkness into the vision that now forms before me.

The Erotic Dream of Miley Cyrus 2

I had been hit by a clod of earth and thin rivulets of dirty water ran down my chin. I needed to defecate, and when I was done I started to whistle. I was ready.
    The air around me was suffused with a stormy, fairy grove light, cast by blue tulip torches, and I felt compelled to speak, but what I said surprised me:
    'I espouse inevitable friendships. Touch an arm and power gives truth artistry. Intuition cuts across the poetry prayer and knows a new papa, for children linked with joyous sins offend normality.'
   As I made my way towards the flashing EXIT sign I noticed that a copious quantity of blood was now pouring from my mouth, as the neck of a headless bird emerged from between my lips. It rose into the air where it turned and hovered above my head, as though it were studying me.
   My twin, now wearing the severed head of the bird, ran up beside me, agitating wildly. His arms, neck and legs had become the pipes and drones of a living bagpipe and as he ran he wheezed an unholy din. Without warning, he viciously swung a scimitar through my neck and I dropped to the ground, where I lapsed into a deep sleep.
   A golden globe slowly lowered itself from the sky to alight upon the ground between my partitioned head and my torso. At the centre of this Golden Orb was a book. The orb rose into the air, where it floated, as the book opened out to reveal that it was, internally at least, a spelling book. The first word we were able to see was spread across two pages. It was CHILD HOOD, and thus it became obvious that the book was in fact a mirror of my own mind. The page turned and the next pair of pages read SEA SONS, then came COUNT LESS, followed by SET TING.
   My hair started to lift and vibrate excitedly, but this sudden surge served to occlude the word for which I was seeking; I saw instead RAIN DROPS. My electro-charged hair then seemed to reel my head towards my neck, as though it were imitating the mechanism of a tape machine, and the next word revealed was DOG MA, then BE CAUSE.
   My hair was gripped, clenched into a bunch at the top back, and my head was lifted, with my heart hanging in the air beneath it; radiant, but invisible. From its base blossomed and opened a vagina, wide as a zero. Beneath this hung a long golden thread with, at its end, and planted firmly upon the ground, a foot.
   The vagina slowly diffused a light that sheathed the body thus far created and started to flesh it out. It became immensely hairy, and an audience started to gather around, as though they thought of me as some kind of exhibit. I blushed, for I was naked, and raw.
   Now winged, however, I took to the air. I was an eagle knight. I soared through the clouds to some distant ruins. But this was a place where all forms were transient: at once in a state of collapse, or in graves, and likewise whole, or living. One moment I might have been looking at something that was in every way complete, but the next it would lay before me, destroyed. The sun and the moon likewise rapidly alternated, but without the discomfort of flashing light, whilst it was my head that appeared to flash, as though it were a belisha strobe, if such a thing were possible. On, when darkness surrounded. Off, when the day became light, in such a way that the area was never truly dark.
   In the flickering light, projections of texts, quaint drawings and photographed memories. Walls and doors that were draped with skin, which acted as some kind of barrier, but which could be brushed away as easily as cobwebs, or that is at least what I thought, because what was actually happening was that my hand was passing through them, as though I were a ghost.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 2

It is at this point in the tale that a man with a fabulous tail strides in to introduce himself. He swishes it firstly to the left and then to the right, as he steps up briskly to face me and slaps me with a finger on the nose. I must admit, I turn quite pale when he rolls his eyes and digs in his heels, before leaning in close to me. I feel I might die, although his eyes do not convey malice, and not for a moment do I believe I might actually be harmed.
   "Russian!" he pipes. "Well I'll be damned! I've lost sausages here. Do you want some?"
   He flicks a toe and spins around, and in a moment is gone. What a character. I've no doubt I'll see him again.

The sky is now filled with apocalyptic black clouds and a rain of golden flakes begins to fall. Loud rumbling is followed by a legion of black clad militia on bikes, wearing full face helmets, emblazoned with the insignia of the Noose. For the most part they stare straight ahead, but not one, who is presumably chief and is scanning the horizon, which is how he comes to see me.
   He breaks from the group and heads straight for me, then plucks me up in his strong arms and drops me into the carriage of his bike before rejoining formation with the others. They are heading for the Reconditioning Centre for Dreamers. "Here's another one" he announces to his men "Roaming around in the open. Almost certainly a dreamer. Maybe even a poet."
   The terrain is quite featureless, although before long the entourage starts to navigate its way through streets beneath grey edifices which increase in size as we travel between them. The shuttered windows are occasionally thrown open and through them appear giant heads which appear to jeer. However, the skin on their faces is flaking and peeling. It is red raw.
   People start to crawl from the houses. They cling to each other, then come more, forming a sticky morass that grows into a corpulent, pulsing red member, into which the team of bikers collides and penetrates. Because this is the penitentiary. It is the soul, the brain, the heart. As they penetrate a whistle blows and the membranes of the walls snap shut behind them.
   I am led to the front desk and the man there wants to take my temperature. He rudely seats me down and places a sensitised helmet over my head. The device reads my ears, my nose, my eyes, my lips. Sensors creep from it and move across the length of my body, concentrating particularly on the area of my sex. He reads the instruments and declares "This one's a dreamer alright!" However, the soldiers have all returned to their duties and there is no-one around to hear him. He is now playing at the machine as though it was a games console, and the music is getting steadily louder. He leaves the machine to walk with a female assistant.
   I close my eyes and abandon myself.
   I see them dancing around a pince nez, which spins at the tip of the trunk-like nose it is attached to, but every so often inverts and moves around like a caterpillar.
   I speak and they disappear then reappear either side of me, unplucking the sensors from my body.
   "The sensors can't be wrong" one declares. "No doubt about it, a dreamer" the other replies. And I wait, I cannot say how long. I feel like an innocent, bereft of all moral turmoil. I seem to wander without volition, going nowhere but where fancy takes me.
   And so it is that I stumble upon a lavish feast. As I enter the dining hall my body fades and I float amongst the tables as a ghost. A crucifix that stands before one of the central tables bows as I approach it. The women who are seated on either side breath fire then jump up and briskly leave the hall, as though they had been affronted. They leave behind a pair of notes:

   "It is a book that lies apart."
   "It passes through the scripted ruins."

And then I plummet to the ground.

And then there will as sure as love be weeping 1

The cat has left a gift upon the kitchen floor. It is a mouse. Its heart still beats, though it is at pains to do so. A bubble of thought rises soberly into the air: 'Please let me be', but the guardian cannot hear this. She is turned the other way. Her thoughts sink slowly to the ground: 'Where are they?'

The floor has recently been washed and the pulsing corpse could be the sordid decoration on a ceremonial cake. A something to be proud of. 'They must come soon'. In the distance a bang and the sound of footsteps: approaching, deviating, retreating. Silence. Patience. 'Miaow '. Here they come.

But the high sonic reveille that greets her when the door is opened is too much for Ting and out she darts through the cat-flap, as fast as her aged limbs will take her. This may be the last gift she leaves.

Had she stayed in place, however, she would have seen that her gift had brought not joy but resigned anger, as the mouse is quickly scooped up and carried outside to the bin. The bang of the lid as it closes is indeed a joyless sound. But imagine, if you please, that mother and father had taken a turn around to the back of the house in search of Ting and found there a palace of fur and twine, of trinkets and bones. That her mouse had been only a foretaste of the stuff her dreams were made of. 

Imagine then, that they had ventured through a magical doorway constructed of twigs, cobwebs and fish bones and stood in wonder, unaware that Ting, perched up high and looking down upon them in a curious way, was counting the seconds until the commencement of her glorious plan.
   When their hands join they find themselves formless, as suspended light that finds expression in a single spark that separates itself and journeys through the air into the murky dark where it settles at the heart of the gloom (the soul is infinitesimally small - a zygote, a sperm).
It is cold here, a foreign place, not entirely dark, but casting little lustre into the surrounds. It is the centre of a place that is yet to be realized, an island in the shade of trepidation. The spirits of dead mice risen abound. The crystalline centres of their eyes crackle and fizz as ice cold water washes through them. Just above the surf small flies gamble with their lives and often lose. However, it is not entirely silent, footprints splash determinedly through the tide and stop before me.
    I can see very little in this gloom but as I attempt to stand and face my assailant the space grows a little brighter. There is now light enough to see her face, which is rounded and dark. Her hair is pinched back; her eyes large and wide. Her lips are full and, stretching diagonally across her cheeks, from her chin to her ears, are a pair of zigzagging blue scars, like bolts of lightning, and it is from these that the dawning light shines.
   She takes my hand. Hers is soft. It feels like the kind of hand I would want to hold, and she guides me along behind her.
   When she stops we are at the basket of a moored balloon, into which she deftly climbs, urging me to follow.
   Once I am inside she cuts the guys without hesitation, and we rise into an uncertain sky, where nothing can be seen, no birds, no clouds, no ground below.
   It seems an age before the balloon becomes trapped at the edge of a mass of weaving briars, into which she deftly leaps, while I cautiously follow. Though as she starts to weave her way skillfully through the dense entanglement I realise that they are in fact giant hairs and that we are venturing along the brow of god.
   Our passage is slow and cumbersome but we reach the end in due course and she disappears into a hole that marks the position where the third eye would have been located, and I of course follow her through, but as I drop down I realise that I am once more alone.
   The vast space into which I have landed, I soon realise, is the brain of god.
   As I walk deeper into it the dots I had seen in the distance loom larger and I can make out figures: men and women at rest and dreaming upon slatted beds. There are also children, but these are not dormant, they run free, but are forever concealed by shadows, as they evade the realms of adulthood. They play hide and seek, but with every intention of losing themselves entirely, of never being found.
   The adults, who lay on their backs upon the beds, have sheets pulled over their faces and seem at first glance to be dead, but as I approach I can see their chests are rising and sinking and can feel their breath, which is slight but nevertheless regular, when I hold my palm above their mouths. When I lift the veil from their faces their eyes flicker wildly, reminding me of antique computer banks, rapidly saving and deleting.
   I now notice that none of the bodies are in contact with the beds upon which they appear to rest, levitating a centimeter or so above it, although they will not budge when I attempt to move them, not even slightly, as though they are in some way rooted, not only to the bed, but also to the earth beneath it.
   I further notice that some are levitating over thin mattresses rather than beds whilst there is nothing at all beneath others,  but every one of them is equally resistant to movement.
   There is one, however, who lays face down, and I am inclined to believe that this one, being the exception, will not resist.
   I am right, or at least partially so. When I grasp an arm and try to turn the individual to face me everything around me starts to fade, as it would if this were the dream sequence of a film, and when I let go the individual starts to turn freely, as though of its own volition, and then starts to spin and cocoon itself in a web that is the colour of faeces.
   As though this was a cue I sense that the children are gradually approaching, moving cautiously into my field of vision, though when I turn to face them they are gone.
   I also sense that the patch of ground upon which I am standing is starting to shift and sink, but is the cavity that is forming as much a cavity in the skull where my adventures are taking place as it is a cavity in the soil where I stand, which is all that remains as everything fades around me?
   The spinning cocoon gradually tightens and elongates until it becomes so dark and heavy that it drops to the ground, where it cracks and spills its deep brown liquid contents, which start to corrode a deep hole into the earth.
   As everything has now faded away and I am in danger of being consumed by the disappearing world of which I have become a part, I drop down into the hole, trying my best to avoid touching the corrosive ooze that runs down the expanding walls of the funnel, and as I descend I look up to see the children's faces appear over the rim. Attentively, they watch as I fall.

I don't have too far to go and land quite comfortably upon a meadow, dotted with large white balls that I initially take for stones, although they are very smooth and most perfectly round. Also, whichever direction I cast my eyes there are giant shoes of every description. I can't resist picking up one of the stones and am surprised to find that it is lighter than anticipated. I attempt to toss it into a particularly elegant Victorian boot.

Between the eyes write

Between the eyes write "Feelings fucked". I don't finger your almighty thought, stopped up as banked virtues in sewers; kept from flowering as intelligence by something opportune.

Hands raised. Wait for the right motive, while our ludicrous citadel readies for fire in fat crowded mouthfuls of same set flavour servings please.

The walk on the cab white tide
Holding darkess high white voice edge
Find a parasite control
Enough! No, later
Though we paralyse by love pew
Shut

Repeat our quiet words. They tell us dangers conceived in ancient streams convey voices of servants below to the burning day. Gnashing their teeth against tentative values come heads hateful as want when the faint ethic voice of rapture moves us to bed lucky smears. We go party blood away.

The meat is fighting land spit truth
The voice of understanding works
Mama!
A man would like all this that
Except his snores fall
Over stolen cuts of silence
Hurting thumbs asleep from business
Rattling bested cries into his conscious mind
Where the passage whispers down names and
Fronts his whinnying worry game

The devil burns the house of master gone behind whose needs the truncheon stages interview police for prodded doors to little shafts of bullet steam they live away won breath of sky

The air is whispered through the hands of people blessed as risen light into the wall of hideouts shouting down against change. It senses damage child tests clinging free as toys and fighting dreams of fraud affray because there'd been a brick they'd meant to understand called movement.

Use that psychic leisure phone. It's intended to cream seed a roaring baby thought even crystallize prospective cravings into commands heard only by audience hostage and fed shit. They don't wait to take like holy caves another sex 'apostrophized'. As doubt excluded goes public its food is found in mirrored beings, drawn to the game of noble names whined politely.

Next door, on the stormy London road, we were crowded at the factory of princely homes and exposed to festive light on strike relax.

Don't cut from sleeping children laws for need whose benefits escort the infant kingdom cross to dawn tonight, by humpback fish more like astonished merchants paid with unit time wrapped cloud tax; financing ghosts for instant dream snake defence.

I continue striding back to breaking hold. You sooner build where fools turn fools to happy bugs. I see another word blur worlds out when, that yield [mute defences].

Parry will with perfect worlds I'll fly again, behind the stalk of nerve; a sorry pervert blocked within imagination's powdered garden. From the fecal horror lost here after infancy's suckling beard mingles reverie and artefacts divine, bleeds choice from microscopic eyes the beauty whole.

Peeping womb, you wax above our phased divide.

Should we stand in positions washed of dreams no god can prove. Here uniforms speak to fragile stars upon white walls of art, too late for appetites discharged in fear's milky vacancy. Sunk in your last thoughts you conceive a seed of erasure. Death
At the tavern tight in bed with woman weak and dealing away silvered breath to economists broke with marble crowns upon their busy facings

Pick a day
Perhaps the new world
Tomorrow reigns
A night belonging to
Intention grown
Because love dreams
A fostered thing
You're weakened

Hands of mud
An ending shell
Essential leaves
Break their final cells
And put their eyes
To the skull wall
See controls snake
Around my manure
With their scholarly balls
Breathing aromatic dreams

Bad time
Logic gas
Make mistakes clean
With shine smiling
Void

You are indeed the whole

You are indeed the whole idea. No hailing paper tells your message like a crumpled island in wonder's hand. Black anger prints the book of books out of your only eye. I'm passing out its warm life in scowling tales called windows; they won't leave you changed. Tomorrow gone, you'll reach the long way, your lips on instruments send yearning forms out to relief. I strain my nature from the inside with arousing razors shamed, as consul keep. Too right! I think I'm smart; I find I'm stuck at chance's door. Something in the corner of this map is proof of friction, making smoke of motionless thought; it speaks from deep retreat. In handmaid underwear it unlocks tears thrown down before they hit the floor. Their meaning is beyond the call that walks in fear: this way to wisdom; that world is burning shades. Now we are broken from the law our meals are swallowed under ashes, stood in offices in cities dead from purses up. We carry arms of written winds without reality's black text of mannered causes. They revolve around sunbeams like Sirian globes of denial; they guard us from reasoning men with each belief pleased, alive stone. Then kindness for sciences that, find ribbons of life in a plot-loaded surface, of faults rented daily for spite.

Paradise produces hallucinatory castles

Paradise produces hallucinatory castles. Inside, crowds dazzled recall fragments of bites at vastness pierced by feverish swords now underfoot. Jugglers lean into hyena's mouths, their blood turned into thin lines of pale want, expectant nets of moment. Silence metaphors without a name, begging ears to father feelings dredged through old tights, stinking with the illusion of accident. Poor natives analyzed upon emotion's face like nervous guides that know not well they know.

I am riddled inclined with

I am riddled inclined with
I know the answer
suuun     shot
and there the running worm
a little salt
a lick of pepper
bleeding cures that make you think of something true     the golden bones undrawn     of garlands on your favoured white pig     I shed my time     I'm neither fear nor fun and in my box uncertainty rattles a poison eye     a jester walking rows ascent as if you ever knew     you let the tap spew gases governed by an ugly fear of motions     I'll tell you where I went I went to freedom's edge     a sudden mountain moated by uncertainties     occluding the mire beyond     reality there appears a work of madness     I line my eyes with tinsel ribbon and wading with upended troops drown solemn thoughts ablame ablame the whoso food and in a christmas gown the like of which you've never seen take photos just like those of old Somes whose cries are oftentimes the only sauce at dinner     ROCK CADENCE     Hound Shivers     Infants do not respond kindly to gout     I have a snail light and my unshell     it is a whisper in a Duke's kind ashes     unwerdalope has sent me away and insects on shovels wave me down     I'm singing with eleven fingered night and even clean hands die wishing     but hold now     I won't spoil things     I'm hatred's poop end     a flower biting the warm refuse     a face against a pain refused     injured limbs of dream flies     the ceiling's down     a carapace of aimless sparks     the wings are twitching the legs enacting a chopped up dance     you just won't flow and pride is hilarious     the fairwheels go round and around and around     the feeling is nausea     you can't hold it down and you step to the rim where the world has ceased spinning     you cling to the light of a vagrant star and march with a certain swagger, follows eyes that mislead with candour     devotion to patterns whose lines will tug you through the screen to a world where sometimes you chance upon people by night who you may fear had come out of a packet

Three jollies

On my way here tonight I saw a house on fire. Nice to see people getting along.

What do you call a line of people with latency issues? River Dance.

I arrived home late one night and found three jolly people outside my door. I asked them what had brought them there. As one they ceased to smile and opened wide their chests, as each welcomed me to look inside. The first introduced me to Ragout, an aged mynah bird with an unappealing song and the second to an unnamed reel of cotton, spinning in reverse. The cavity of the third, however, was quite empty and, with a gesture, he invited me to push my head inside, and without a thought I did so. "It's dark in here" I cried. "Where's the switch?" "Right here" was his humourless reply, as he brought it down hard across my buttocks, prompting me to leap inside.
The first thing you notice when you're lost inside the belly of a jolly is the sound of trumpets. A bright, wheezy sound that forces you to blush and light up like a bulb, and this is how you find your way.
I don't suppose you'll be surprised to learn that almost the first thing I saw in there was a McDonalds. I went inside and bought a McBready Donut Burger™ with Hundreds and Thousands, not to eat, mind, but in case I would need it to ward off future evil. It seemed the right thing to do.
I was on a long, sloping street that shimmered like gold but was moist and slippery, and wasn't easy to walk along, as though it was a made-up lip and the walls were a row of glistening teeth, along which chinchillas scurried furtively, hoping to make a mark. At least they looked like chinchillas at first glance, but the way they moved gave them away, and it was clear that beneath their skins they were rats. I continued down the hill and before long saw the unforgettable figure of Grandfather Man, fast approaching with his unmistakable metronomic stride. He's an odd fellow with a big, bushy moustache whose gait is as rigid as a stick, arms swinging like pendulums at his sides. I knew from experience that the only way to stop him was to ask him the time. So I did, and he stopped, and stood to attention with a sharp click of his heels. 'Big o'clock'. He retorted, like a pro. At least, that's what I think he said, and there's no point in arguing with Grandfather Man when it comes to time, or asking him to repeat himself. However, now that he was stationary he was almost certainly going to start twittering away about how things were before the war, so I took my leave, but not without firstly accepting the drink he had offered me with a knowing look. Grandfather Man has always been useful in that sort of way. Onwards I walked, with the donut burger in one hand and the drink in the other, ever sensing that life was teeming all around me, but that I could see nothing but the chinchilla rats, and that whatever else was there wasn't visible because I wasn't on the same wavelength. I needed retuning in some way. I was lost in thought and absent mindedly dunked the do-burger into the drink and all hell broke loose. There were bodies leaping and bounding all about me. A swarm of Leaping Frivolities, the closest of whom spun my way, made a lunge for the dogur, tore it from my hand and went screaming back up the hill, hotly pursued by the the rest, in a raucous body of howls. At least I felt free now to drink my drink in peace, and as I did so things started to appear slightly clearer, so I took a hearty gulp. I saw that to my left was a suhway and before me a slightly busy road. It didn't smell too good, like the farts of bats in Gothic arches, but reality, it seemed, had been restored.

When you speak

When you speak I don't hear what you say, I hear the wheel that's spinning the words, and wonder why you don't, if you don't. I won't voice my own (we're not so different you see) What's the point?
All the mud of the world has leaked away. Step away from yourself. Unlock the door. Vast engines of warmth roll out and wrap you in colours. The veins of darkness are coursing life refuted dance and reaching wills then freeze. Into brackets. What shape is a healthy mind?
My only note is a too ting ROAR!
Blessed be pain. Hurt in peace. Must remember to buy some sausages. Why you interested anyway? I'm no-one, nowhere. Just trying to record a fiction that's grotesque enough to alter the one that's left us here.
I'll give you the Jackson Pollocks. They're always the new thing. As much as I hate to see them cry. I'll leave them cat food. They'll cry. It's funny how we care, we don't care. How! We don't bite, won't bite, because we're new here, and this may be the only chance, something we all need. They're not paying attention! Reel them into the honeypot. We can neither reign the running horse nor feed it grain until we've nothing more to gain from suffering.
I'm, you know, making a big mistake. I'll get totally lost in the time of it, and you know what's really stupid is that even when your face stop movin' you're still there.
So God is invoked, to quell the fluidity that is the mind's birthright. Our elders told us so. They're going to argue an eternity to keep from moving on. The power lines they're hungry for will never change. They've doomed themselves; wallowing in luxury engendered by their acquiescence to authority. It's all a part of the game. I'm not so very HARMLESS. There's always got to be a time when you start to get a sense of what you're doing. So our current leaders; are they as ruthless as their forebears? We wouldn't know. They've yet to be tested. That is democracy. It's why my words conjure the collapse of means in search of the cipher to stop the bleeding. When the poor are gone what will the rich have left to feast upon?
Fighting our adversaries with the weapons of our own destruction. Who lives in fear? Because Smith isn't here?
As time drops petals to the ocean, I have worlds to put right. I am free to tug against restraints, but which way I pull offers scant respite, I'm still torn apart. If I have one wish, it is to be like my father; to squeeze myself into the barrel of a gun, and dangle. I light the one torch. I love the one light. I bruise in the eyes of fate, in jet streams whitened by torque. But if there's anything left when I'm done, please let it be my brain. I'll be needing that for plucking woorms from out the jam jars of life.

Two industrial worlds working

Two industrial worlds working
Free net
Excuse my woe
Right as bread whence entropy
Scarred with gems like man tears
Passing for the archive deal
Arrests us
Death love facing salt peace
Sees a crown
Yet follows promised sense affair
The pistol finger don't die

Dear I
Resist the way of victory
This cavern of subject bubbles remains
Seeking gaps is not nice

What is the inspiration hold?
It brings a father's chastity home by
Speaking fast of prodigal hearts
In distant beds
Beside brothers with wandering hands
Kept sober in the light of noon defeat

Love has concentrated layers
After being dusky-eyed with artist mustard
New fruit covers the lips and paws
Each foot promises to shout the other's name
The petit-nez extends in wild places
From impossible roots to mysterious ends
Less motionless in intimate venues
Having whiffed last rushes it plugs the woozy
And services the rains

Given that all births are started on hillsides
Our hearts avoid questions prescribed by content
Growing our nails in dreams
That lament the next hill
That compare skins broken
From old attractions hands
And in pictures see amours
Of mingling ends

Noble soldiers like lost fish
Are prized in the gladdened air
Of constant obligation

If behind the rage is
Dreaming barren
Clean the house
It's making chains of
Sweetened fear
To bite the people
On the level shining floor
They wall their suspicions
In a prayer to solicit ills
Establish fitness tidy lot
With professional recoil shock
Lay gaslight paper passengers
On story walls
So weeks can renew without respect
The ugly trade of pity

The Labyrinth

Let's go into the bloody labyrinth, where the ugly faces of hunchback worms can face us down. Let's take matches and a gilded swan and start a fire, to roast the angel's eyes, then crush all the butterflies with our tongues. We can wear hob nail boots and with them shunt the boatman down the Styx. "Get lost, ferryman! Your time has come!"