disco scene fungus growth

the world is a temporary commodespace where we flush the memories of some ghost lakes growing and dangling off the god of fire’s chin

dribble, dribble, dribble, eternally dribbling that ball over and over and over and over,always dribbling that ball, that planet in plastic wrap, that moldy sandwich left in Gemini’s dumpster like half-eaten indecisions of lukewarm spittle bridges

they connect us to each other on invisible boats of passage into death, the vikings awaiting the samurais for one last battle within the realm of long discarded memes

let us celebrate the fate of an internet flarf, let us be born anew in the baths of a crucified riverbank, drag queen maidens floating on the bodies of a tepid disco scene fungus growth on our consciousness, sprouting iridescently and triumphantly through tiny little vortices growing from a black-and-white movie in the flowers watching this movie on a cheap broken tv set in the yard and meditating, always thinking about the death of things

the breath exhaled absorbs back a multitude of self-made poisons, poisons and mutations offered by Zeus as a testament to the fleeting floopy jaloppi moppiness of his crustacean creatures, or so he sees them as they look back on him and see the same,
their eyes cancel each other out in one long stream of beautiful rainbow vomit spit and I want to jump in the waterfalls and crash to the bottom of the jagged rocks, taiko drums blaring, morraccas emanating some dusty bone shake, plummeting to the bottom top black hole white hole re-entry center of constantly evolving consciousness