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Freebooters at Ground Zero by Troy The World won't stop the henchmen; we conquer the world without control and give progress new ideas! Here's the automoated sanity man; I want something more a Big Bang! (It must look pretty appealing.) If the collective owns Death T.V. Then the geneology of truth suffers for bad taste and I'm still shooting rapids on the River Id.
Up above the stench of sweat and axel grease Love is a free - standing prism, reflecting all manners and modes of being, but you can't stay on the nod atop the Mountain or the Prophets kick your ass back into the dole queue. So I join the Freebooters at Ground Zero with a Bay leaf in my teeth, and a mirror held up to Mother Nature's tits. Unmarked helicopters hover over the riots of random stock numbers and fake social security numbers. Down by the city park, the flashers have formed a more perfect union - wouldn't you? In the face of total irony only the dead are sane. |
The Death of Romance by Troy Sputtering oak leaves laugh in the deep spring day. Under the shadow of the castle worms dream of rotting penis flesh ...
A coven gathers, ten swords piercing the burnt offering. Red cranes march through the dim chamber. The offering is a mannequin. Rats twitter on the altar, their eyes drawn to the coven of crash test dummies. Parsifal crashes in on a thunderbolt, flinging condoms on the pentacle. A century of assassins and clowns beat in a black heart open on a stone - Evening flowers in a thousand reading lamps. The Castle left at five o'clock and I'm still stuck in traffic ... In the valley of cause and effect, sad flesh becomed a paradise lit by baby oil and stuffed with pubic hair; Lovers never fear death by water, where Knights of the burning pestle mourn The Death of Romance, a dying swan in a frozen lake. |
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Watchman, What of the Night? by Troy A fog tickles the sky over my balcony, a five o'clock lunar mist, swimming over the asphalt. There's no breath over the horizon. Raw canvas broods in the den, bleached at noon, it hangs limp like a dead sail over its frame.
Rice paper leaves ripen, dazzled by the autumn vapors trailing in over my shoulder, and my vision flies on leather wings over the sidewalks, skirted by a little moss, into the crevices of cruel light. We're in the Vally of the Shadow Scorched, torn on a planet of glass, give us shelter and let us bleed. Gun metal sun of darkness; striving dead sounds in the trees - Watchman, what of the Night? Embalisms of desire, patched with broken fingers grope, sweat, and drop (SPUT!) from the ceiling in the den. The passion of red sandals climbs my staircase after its journey back from the sea, reborn from an embalism of desire, a naked street lamp. A silent arabesque, without cunning or brutality, the vine climbing the trellis (its mate); antennae of lost seasons, you open the door to the river. From a fountain of endless eyes, The City is born, and the Brotherhood of Sleep is convened. Carrier waves of silk posses Mother Night in her arteries, conversing in subatomic shorthand. A red crane pecks my heart; Pierott draws the moon down on a ticket booth, where I'm lost in shadow, a house of spirals on the horizon of Becoming. Spiders caper and preen in the smog of my heart; scorpions chew on my lover's eyes, where chainlinks flash, painting the underbelly of a canvas, woven in a million strands, strewn, masted, composed in ironic shards. Still, the branches outside my window sing below the genius of the sea, the Ax - Father of Atlantis and the Sun. Here their sentient shades of indigo where only the soul dwells. The voices that stir the typhoon with a whisper, igniting the butane in the dust. Sunlight on stretched canvas reflects Ariadne's web. Cronos and Apollo carve the same bust of Janus with a cloak and dagger, a wedding of hounds and the harp. And the Gods made love south of heaven by the workshop of the telescopes, under the Banner of Bleeding Meat. Is the cloister a garrison of vipers? Were it not for the Furies in my root cellar I would seduce the sick Moon in her tower, commanding her corp of signet gallows. Each night has its own soul. This is the Eye of Silence, a shaker of salt, where olive groves sprout over graves. Cold metal dawn in its wings coming down the spiral staircase - Fingers grope in the shaving kit; - Cold metal eye - mine - in the mirror, perched like ancient owls; nude geisha gash dripping down my nose - teats heaving like bellows, heaving crates of Autumn wind onto my drydock; Dawn flaps in my ears, the sound of a crome muffler tasting the ozone. Lust is a cold knife in the navel of syntax where our namadic geometry falls into a lake. The white gulf that wets its wings under a cloak of cables strewn vast as the shore in a vagrants eyes weighs anchor in my chest. The last Embalism of Desire is chained to reason. A calm revolution waits in our veins, however long, like a snail, ready to open a chest of stallions. Every passion has an address, where confession is a broken mirror, and confusion a noose. Thousands of locusts smile in the sun, like other species, they let the moon speak for itself, and mountains sit at their feet, like hoboes pissing on headstones. Love is a silvery flutest. Back into the Flood, the thin tread of my master gone to drain tears; have I gone so far that hame will never find me? |
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