Turnstiles stilled into reaping stoneware. Crowds of sandfly men descend on God's failed infant vision. Despondent, we pace the pools of unflapping, irreplaceable clouds, arching fierce backs against endless valleys carved by the brazen mountains.
Heaps of sharpened clonkers fill the clog-wheels of deripening eyelids. We flash blind. No crowd in the cruel souls, or the seeming drum-cries. Tarpulin sails, I stand and sit and nowhere sit still.
Purblind, unfolding the courage-canvas of harpooned minds, fighting the prurient tide, but dearthy of creeper's dry, baked yore. Pounding at the prison shaft, at the draking foundling lane of lights, that hide, swiftly, concealing more curtains , dream after dream, forking truth in overcooked cries. Dreamt spiels in Devil's kitchen, pouring blood with no slime or grain of soundless trust. Petering forth sunlight, powerless in baptism, dream-frozen, streaking, sparking, across black skies, inexhaustible as Lethe bound truth.
Pertaining, referring, still sicker beyond chasms of time, chasms ground into brick-belief rock, that fall, from the flushing heights, in heightless, terrifying descent into the dead schools, into the schools of the dead, that breathing time of gushed up lungs.
Pie-like, we slice at youth, each content with his crusty, meatless share. But as midnight springs, the stroke of unopened truths, of unspoken circes, line the floorboards to darkness, while the red cloth will blindfold decoloured eyes.
Every future is inflamed with the violation of anticipation as every past is stained in the mudground of truth. One extinguishes in the deed or perishes in the noxiousness of its unfilled waste - to be frozen and rethawed like a self-regenerating birthday cake.
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