Anarchy at the Edge of God's Hindbrain

Nietzsche, a broken record of Inviolable Nihilism.

 The Queen of Candy Colored Corpses. Resurrection velvet, treble clef of Genesis zephyrs. 

A polyphonous laughter,  glissando of butterfly wing across the Oasis of enchanted vagabonds, 

who stand roadside guarding sun burnt bird feathers and bread, screaming for their Mothers, when the world 

is dead and the Pentagon is a Twelve Faced Octopus vomiting money and 

whiskey of Perfect Madness across

the Disneyland Howl of Endless Yesterday. 

He / She / It / them / they / I / You is trapped in this shadow, bathed in coincidental disintegrating 

syzygy of paranoid pantheons, the Ask Me Not Afterlife of Life amongst the Cubist Cubicle Cult

whose phantasmagoric flocks flood theblood of a  world negating Insanity Christ 

with postcards scrawled in the poetry of a murmur drunk Tahitian masseuse. 

One can hear this syntax in the Omnipop Void, Ovulating Visigoth Vulcans whose adamantine 

madness is prying open the Casket of God, while Lazarus lurks in the Discotheque

 near Paradise Alley, birthing a thousand whispers into this Maximum Security 

Maternity Ward, where the Mother of Nada and Dada and Prada, the Guru of Ragas and Apocalypse Jargon

falls asleep in a wound made of supercomputing  rainbows. The Cuckoo Clock is a 

 Coup d'etat, the 

denouement of rubies and a unicorn blueberry rubicon. 

His blueblue recessive rhodopsins, number - tinted eyes scan this purgatorial ballad for 

hallucinations of the First Dominion, mongrel faced ballerinas bathed in escarpment architecture, 

barking the syntax error of Zero Faced God, metaprogramming subroutines of parables lost in the faces of the 

polygonal alleles of space faring robo-  Tourists,  eyes clucking in calamitous gawk,

flags and salt, sweat that bought tickets into a funhouse mirror, there where 

the _______ died, and the Astronauts chirp like debutantes 

lost in twelve dimension holograms broadcast by Ancient Roman Televangelists 

 deep into

 the middle of the night, where the Human face waits,lost in the never ending Loan of Madness

silent and patient as the Void, 

churning with equations whose solutions are composed by puppeteers lifting Ravens

into the unfinished Atmosphere, hydrogen ravens crystal in lacrimose synchronicities, 

and Thomas Pynchon is whistling hurricanes of Unknowable Cosmologies deep in the 

unpronounceable anarchy and Unfinished Questions that  race around the edge of God.  

Solve for X in  the Soundless Sound, a Baghavad Gita of indelible uncertainty, 

codex of Vajrayana light, syllable wisdom of anonymous beings whose lives are lost 

in the wilderness of glossolalia glissando, poltergeists of 

Broken glass in the Doctor's eyes as She  slips through the world in rhythmic fire of 

the Supercomputer that Cannot Tie It's Own Shoes. 

 Every word that races on axons into dendrites of loan sharks gathering Nietzsche's memory, 

cannibals of the carte blanche Babylon,

where every nothingness

 becomes some otherworldly Now, a cricket winged Anarchist of Saturnalian Entropy, 

pursuing flight across freckled cities where the human Fist becomes a faceless face

racing against time in the bathroom mirror,

and   The extraordinary Fear is a nightmare of curious Fires.   

The hallucinatory flame burns Fish until the suburbs praise the death scene of Charlie Manson, 

whose final breath ignites the candelabras of the Lost Suburban Nihilists, trapped 

in a skull fucked drainage ditch of bullet proof vests and machine gun totems,

potheads smoking the eyelids of Vampire bats

whose hearts are bathed in the sodium pentathol flavored winds, on the edge of teh Convenience store where 

 Freedom writhes in the eyes of Ordinary Beings lost in a psychedelic stutter on the 

end of a chain:  the King of the Dogfaced Angels  dangling dollar bills above the mouths of corpses that 

reminds the world of God's imaginary love, a place of all beginnings, where nothing could possibly ever end

and the mystery is as true as it isn't. 

A moment of silence for the heat death of the Shopping Mall.

Tattoos have been licked by video game messiahs frothy mermaids and emeralds, 

lost by the sudden sweep of an Intergalactic Tongue into Utopian Poetry and

caskets of electromagnetic

wavepoints that shine like uncertainty of scintilla in the glossy clock of perfumed wine, 

gossip mouthed cats chasing television demigods

into Prisons of Non Local Wisdom.