[MELT MATHEMATICS INTO NUMBERS:] [SINK THE SUBMARINE BROTHERS:] October 05, 2003, 23:59 [BROKEN COMPASS:] {dawn} The scent, the smell of Pheramone wafts through open almanacs and mouse trap springs. Dawn alive and her leaves will die. Such a season for twisted intestines. The steam bath sets: [Down at the Cobra Café] DIANA DOORS: “Clearly, pleasure is dead. If love is dead then pleasure must be as well. If a tree has no root…” (The sun clinks up steel and heaven drops like brains on fine china.) [The marble lifestyle composition:] compositions of embedded traits, suck the frap from the polished nailbomb beauty; her dead era of skin and stone have collapsed into the orchestra pit. The modest characteristics of the male nude: meanwhile, the king of Jewish Rye tends to his secret fears. Majesty of torture filters fertility... [CLASSIFIED:] For the sack of his black mold army. The king of jewish rye calculates the recourse. (He whistles in geometry and drinks out from film canisters) reel to reel takes its solemn toll. Like the film of the orange julius the king of jewish rye sucks his non-finito glance at monte carlo kitsch. [BULLHORN:] HEADLINES: KING OF RYE DIES WITH OCEAN VIEW (The sky deteriorates like a boiling blue movie) [Karma Control:] POLICE CHIEF CARLTON ABBOTT: “Spider bite? That’s mere 1470s reputations! This is indisputable: The King of Jewish Rye was known for his municipal patronage. We grieve for his loss, no doubts about that…but the scorpion sting is in the method. Detective, would you please elaborate?” DETECTIVE VITRUVIAN WOMB: “With keen awareness, we found 'exhibit A' in the late monarch’s testament tenament: (detective reveals: [exhibit A = the salt of western civilization]) (The crowd flies off the handles) THE DUKE OF CALIFORNIA: “Praise INGEST! We shall shoulder shatter this alter debate! Enthrone his bones, dial tone.” PRESIDING BOARD SENIOR, PROFF. FLANKED VERACOSE: “Say, are you trying to say that someone has rendered the antidote? Why, such a dynamic development would take an (extended stomach) amount of time." DETECTIVE VITRUVIAN WOMB: "To compose (barrel cramp) to legitimize such an irrational synthesis would…” (The lights flicker with highlighter flies in trash) ERIS SNAKE: “inseminate syrup = indulgent bribe” (The disciples of discipline polish their high foreheads with sweat) DISCIPLES OF DISCIPLINE: (slam unanimous gavels) "HERECY! HERECY! Shaved eyebrows? Clad in cataclysm? Taste the truth for us!” (justice ferments in the pause of irrationality) PATRON PHILOSPHOER: “Truth and beauty are ideal things; yet truth can only be understood through the experience of the world” POLICE CHIEF CARLTON ABBOTT: “The cats from the Japanese flag will hang in the courtyards of apathy! Their shadows: the widows offer a plentiful reward.” Comparison = idealism Assertion = imperialism Emblematic predecessor in the form of the untimely patron. The devoted are baptized in lights of lies, and the king’s body is burned alive. He is no more of a captive than a melted wax crayon. The widowmaker packages and patents the fumes. [News perfume:] Where the brothers and banshees are sinking. [BULLHORN:] The cats from the Japanese flag wanted dead or alive. Sentence: regicide {midday} hand and hand, The cats from the japanese flag stalk down the syrup soaked pavement. Freeways, highways, hold their hearts sideways, how can you cross the line? when the lines defect the short sorted history of reflections. They steal the diamond rings, drinking from the muddy and muss puddles. Take the job from the exhaulted sultan. The road locomotive hacks up in the keys that makes the boys lungs heave. Greased backs, slick toungues; the cats from the japanese flag shoot the lesbians out. The czech comes for those who wait. They skin the lesbians of their zipped leather fatigues and make sure to slice all their knees. No reason for them to walk when they only crave what’s between the legs. The cats love to crack the black watch of czech before the foreknuckles of the undercover detectives. Put the babies to bed…hide from the ride of hysteria radio static. The rolling hills were a retreat; now they are littered with the reaking eggs of the prison peacocks. Time bomb, no use for hysteria radio static. The papers are back from the czech automatic. The cats ride again. Snack on birth certificates, drink the tears of the syruping dying dears. A cackle, a shift in the benday dots; they burn the newspaper factory down to sinders. Good for smoking in the iron pipes. The cats perfect their low tide smiles with tight fisted pursuit; baby powder for dinner. [The debutant’s desert marriage:] Ride, the flocks of glossy geese explode in pomegranite glory. Victory in the whiskers of the hissing cats from the japanese flag. The mirage of beauty, the legs of pleasure vanish all measurements of feets and feathers; the skunk skin pillows stuffed with the glop of geese inerds. Better than sex, salmon pits. Sabotage in pink channels, cook the skins like max roach. (The bells and barrels shoot with the debutant’s diamond spiraling.) The cats take all the poker chips and make the debutante swallow her mistakes. Say, rip down her eyelashes and give them to god. Ejaculate dramamine, sweat salty nitrate. The compounds and volumous books scream nothing when we die. Clip the wings of a fruitless victory, payment means leaves of a free falling army. The cats control the chapters of this slumber story, grinding and filing the sweat of the indians. Gave presents of resident tape worms, to the colon of favorite grandmothers ashes. Could they ever rinse the blood from vein littered eyes? Fold such remorse of the smiles of the skin? “We ride on in the orange teal sunsets, we sink titanics with slavery glaciers we cross the lines of the atlas, we cross out the names of the last double crossers are you ever free with your hearts near your knees? Ride the freeways forever with the last of the oracles, The felines of history’s tumors are hissing for you” The cats from the japanese flag drink lies of the truth... {sundown} [A toast to the sailor:] Goldmine, gorgeous and rotten swollen pollen, in the tombs of forever; the bats cracking mirrors. Tremors of rotten cavity cleaners and cold real estate are antennas of weight. Potions of pleasure make slavery sisters. See the sun rising from the city of blisters. Pick out the horoscope and the asprin train will dance again, swallow from goblets of spice’s inferno. The fevers of clementines climb just as the mold devours the pantomime cradle. The road to the ocean never smelled so clean. (The radio static loosens like webs of chest congestion) (The stars from the providence skyline form a lather of riddles that burst like cecarian birth.) Tonight is the night. [Please the population of the wooden wagon:] As The cats from the Japanese flag clasp the soft blonde fuzz of virgin girth... Ride in on the tide from the companies eyelit, the casino jungle of vixens and scoundrels. A lovers retreat with plaque on teeth. Hiss across the lamposts and smear the smiles across the kitchen set of clasps and hangers in wire thin homes. Remove the pinchers from the hormones. Beauty burns alive in the syrup spun web of mangled lust. (The cats from the Japanese flag black the lips of aesthetic pedastles.) (They shred the pedals of the syruping pears.) While the pilots in the air, enjoy the view from up there. {dusk} The husk of autumn saunters within the luxurious st. pheramone suite. Salvation city is bathed in the vanilla yolk of running mascara. We string up lies like perfect kites and hope they miss the clouds. We kiss admidst the tommy guns, the parakeets and icy feet. She shares her eyes like trapdoor hinges, fallen lungs and telephone receivers. We sulk in the shadows of legendary romance; the pinch in the pulse. The saint proclaims: “crucifix? Don’t you mean kitsch?” She understands that a god is still a man. We dodge in and out of traffic, hand in hand, bubble gum in sand. I shield her from pin balls that fall from heaven “Like a crown of thorns, let’s get to the point; Caress your silk neck with my hot iron hands” Pheramone’s secret without any weapon, “my soul mate, we’re the ones in eleven; pin ball’s from heaven” {twilight} As the moon devours the entrée of laps laced in longing… SUBMARINES OF POLARIS: ” THE MONSTER’S LOSE: YOU’RE LUCKIER THAN YOU KNOW IT” White as waxen lips; we sleep in cocoons of solitude With only our eyelids tattooed: Viva… Viva…. Vienna….. [END VIENNAGRAM:]