[THE TRIUMPH OF SAINT OVER SIN:]----AND----[THE NEW REALISM:]
November 18, 2003, 23:44

find kelly keyboard and you’ll find the missing bobby pins
trim invisble fat.
Remove; excess.
adjust; subdued. 
“Crock pot is a brand name. Crock pot has a copyright.” 
frowns kelly keyboard; you’ve found the eyes for ike. 

Ike stamps his cigarette out on the robe of clarical authority; chorus nor sharkscale could outweight. 
Ike removed his hairpeice and replaced them with sifting sanddunes 
Ike, the minorette flushes out the skunk smell yet the moth balls are hiding in those sand dunes
Ike, you’ve got your eyes, shall we? Shall we take your ‘K’ and ‘E’?
Shall we paint them like the mannerists or are we just men to die? 

{dawn}
MANNERIST CRY: “To the coin!”

Off the real estate, into the great lake: there we feed on horse hooves and vitruvian wombs. 
with that kind of service, ladies are careful with their gowns.
Finally; acoustics, artifacts and anonymity,
In the import/export Ferris of the hormones in your heart:
In that breeding ground of impound cars and Japanese black tar,
We were deported past Asia for panhandling follicle cigars. 

MANNERIST CRY: “To the blood soaked Cadillac!
So we may make our grayscales bloom to make Indian blood perfume.”

{midday}
The tape worm factory clientele; 
The Hi-fi Internationale writhes through this gold-plated underbelly; cold and caustic. 
Chalk black leeches steam speed limits for their suckling light soldiers.
The Hi-fi whines and wails as the brake spine snaps and seers like a toddlers tears. 
The Hi-Fi blinks binary prayer as the red hot insect eyes congregate their chariots…
A Turkish slave in lavish shackles screams: 
“DIE, YOU HANDSOME DEVIL!”
Cackles (wait to inhale) from dying embers of The Arthropod Clergy spitting lubricated wheels,
“To mercy!”, slap their maggot mouths; bubbling gasoline chalices erect in a victory limelight.
yet, larva, pupa, and imago 
must return the favor to their conduit fathers; 

Behold: Blinking towers of Karma ; 
The Incandescent route to Salvation City waters. 

Abdomens; pulsate parachutes of hot pulp that magnetize to all calcified off ramps.
Thorax; propel perfumed anchors that disperse like vitamins in the stomach acid casino. 
Salvation City tightropes hum in patient crimson and deliver The Hi-fi from harm.
Czech Czech Czech: a silhouette in the Convex Mirror:
“Crustacean Cherubs belong to the Atlantic brothel and not to headlight nightlife.”
Crustacean Cherub: 
“Sir, I deliver a parting gift, a consolation prize. You may own all the lands that grace your eyes but albino sands will always be mine.”
(The Cherub snuffs out like a blacklist horizon and delivers her poison lance of impudence latex.)

{sundown}
[VIENNAGRAM TELETEXT:]
“Greetings from the Fat Fair”

“Vienna, are you still as savvy riding this low tide spinster circuit?”
Well if the price was just right then I’d pay Hades a visit. 
“Gaieties Via Vienna!” exclaim the Valhalla Chorus.
“Vienna, just sweep them with your generous aim:
Shoot the hunters as game; they’d buy their own names.” 

Meanwhile, The Danish Venus files her nails like a Rembrandt Mystery.
the procession of currency corsets and dollar bill tendrils cause the merchants to salivate into their laps and homemade TV trays. 
Orchestrating the forefront, Vienna stands in signature pose.
The fellow fat peddlers weep at such a luminous appearance.
The saint coughs in the key of dollar signs; savvy femininity. 
She wants to trust the common man; Pheramone for the people. 
but all Alfred really wanted was a taste of her elegant edible skin.

Freudian slips at our fingertips, we have proven that immodest art pays.
The time to tie that bonnet of cash or credit: “Beware, Beware: God is watching”
Gaze upon our landscape of lust: toast to the totems of germination.
Only our hot air balloons are betraying,
Like a transparent mother to her children of flame. 

To the outskirts; we ride out on the karma barge, 
past the low gag of cellophane swamps and wastelands of rancid oil paintings. 
We wince like a pair of bronze chalkboard mandolins.
“In your twin marble eyes, may I always reside;
no, Ohio couldn’t kill us, my feline bride.” 

{dusk}
open up exclusive doors at the borders of the Horror Vacui.
“Fervency! Furvor!” blares the protest over the hedges.
“comprise is betrayal”, rebelled again, the monarch butterflies. 
Glorify and ring until the end…

[SPECIFIC PROPAGANDA:] 

The street urchin is dressed to smoke your libido with two tone tendrils.
(She sets her close jaws)
(set mutiny lamps)
(release flamingo)
chow on glass and meet the fresh fame by reputation.
This is realism in the pigpen. 

In back round flakes, the squid superior is half stuck in a coat of new paint. logical development.
Women sop their earlobes with the oil pigment of the fleshy various lungfish. specific propaganda.
With a menu method of Saccharin, we set close the picture paws.
(direct light source from lips to left)
gamblers and oil sheiks practice the uniform tradition of smoke pipe and ascot embroidery.
[NOTE:] I dream in infinity. (empower) (enlighten) (etc.) 

“warts and all?” 
“Warts and all.” 
This is a gambling problem.

The flocks of Jane Brain’s go to battle with beaks, over their eggs from the oil sheik.
Conserve and re-encapsulate the cat’s head into a candle stick.
Like a Chinese Napoleon, I left my camera obscura moist. 
The Bear stages a Bohemian exoneration and then finds it is nothing more than a stab in the heart. 

…And in the Horror Vacui the ringworm is still eating her flowers…
Saint Scalopendra, surrender us your rotting apples;
To The lobsters and infants of modern day Belgium.
You’ve had a long day so rest your cigarette machine.
You’ve come a long way to stop dispensing already. 

Narcissism and classicism; fall meets falter. 
And the various lungfish will one day be smoke from flame.
The vanity of life is at our fingertips.
So demolish the obelisk of the ringworm monarchy.
His pulsating poison devotion of suntan lotion has run apricot dry;
So if you want some new boots, we could skin him alive. 

{twilight}
Ecstasy is in blue marble reflections in the wake of a burning city.
Solvent is a saint that can clean convex lens with poison darts. 
The Hi-Fi Internationale runs on crustacean shells in the Salvation city circuit. 
And the curve of my lips prove the ancient world is a dead world. 

[END VIENNAGRAM:]