you might ketch me on the interstate!

Yea, I might ketch up with you.

We smoke the toenails and hair of the wiseman under a black god's thumb.

We dance like painted puppets,
she bleeds orgasm in techni-color,
an ocean of alien mystery.

We eat the wiseman's eyes for sight that we might see the darkness if we kill the lights fast enough.

We eat the brain and pray that our eyes can open wide enough. We burn the dry shell, a funeral chant.

The pulse quickens and we dance
as the blossoms fall. A scattering of dust to the winds this celebration of old skin. I feel every flower that is screaming to consume you.

The earth and sky your cradle, the earth and sky entomb you. So is the way of forever teeming with simple cruelties, beatings in cold rooms, hands and head not found