We to the Distant Plane Slipped

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We to the Distant Plane Slipped

The sky was as a country the future explorer would find at Tarzan's knees

We to the distant plane slipped toylike through the light

Her disheveled hair and panting bosom betokened sun of the scarlet path filter paper, and placed inside the earth a box containing itching red wispy clouds of the west, the morning God suicide a cold beautiful creature dragged toward its doom

That sunset glow woke up the other subway, the strange fauna--the flames, the sky sounds

The doctor was able to diagnose deep waters, and living things were swept from the baby day into nightfall, the darkness mind and eventually death jungle of wires

Winter is the time when God might wear TV screens by the fiery boys where snakes send electric shivers unendurable, aching pain, the brain an overloaded switchboard sending insane message storms raging proudly and it hit me: We're sacrificial neurotic cat blood pressure drops dusty poplar trees shaking in smooth gray walls decorated with many virgins, sent out to keep the beast quiet

my itching woogie in a blimp over Bombay

Worn out with fatigue, we fell asleep. in the deep waters, and insane dinosaurs, iguanodons, and fish lizards wiped the fine dust off sex sudden clean smell of salt air pictures explode in the distant plane slipping toylike through the night

the sound of cheesy carnival music hits the floor memories stripped to the waist killed a rattlesnake with a golf shield that caught the stain of vestigial hallucinogenic artifacts and felt a genuine fondness for the "Cough It's Something Horrible Club"

Traded music continues to play attached to the forehead of a smile forced down grim stone stairs, so narrow a razor blade is stopped and music continues to play, though flames

Other jet trails had blown in the previous evening

Or maybe Reality smells something. Her NOSTRILS FLARE cheering and stand to watch the crimson side of night house Boogie bible for a little black dying sun, red on the mother's great alarm

The grand-vizier said that the murder of excellent pictures done with charred sticks represents induced psychosis

Nostalgia becomes Armageddon’s loved and lost

I'm not the rocket the sky knows I'm the angel of time

CONTENTS

TIME ANGEL