VIII

The wings of the sparrow beat upon the wind and the rustling of the leaves invades my mind. Kaleidoscope skies pierce the atmosphere and the sweet moon shines her face upon the black trees of the desolate scape. The house stands bravely upon the silent blue hill and its inhabitants go about their mundane insane plain routines. Send our regards to our queen for she has committed the most hideous obtuse diverse inverse perverse fantastic of crimes: she has shattered that organ most holy of holy, the organ of life which flows through my soul, the beating eating fleeting feeling heart which filled me with love with lust; this despair fills me stills me kills me.

Repress the urge to have her, desire controls me, overpowers me enrages me; I feel obessive aggressive impressive possesive, compulsive, like Master Paul on his rocking horse. I will have you will bury you, you will be mine. I will burn the house down and rise with the wisps of the burning blaze; rise and rise above and beyond to the realm of gods, sweet and unfliching, morose and sardonic. Halloween, Hallows eve, are you happy? Are you content? Sadness madness deranges my mind, scrambles my thought; why don't you love me? Contempt contempt contempt for this anger, for this sanctimonious feeling of nostalgia, the impetuous derisive feeling that I contain within me. I will go nowhere and somewhere, everyplace and no place, among the gaseous giants that fill those unwavering eyes and the swirling twirling curling clouds of dust and elements that saturate your incessanly dark, vacous pupils. I will find you; sick upon the rug, surrounded by fantastic lights, multicolored lights, bright as the night, piercing my eyes, covering the heavens, all through the sky. Minerva Minerva, talk to your son, help him through the ordeal and make him a deal, a deal to be played, a mind to be slayed: kiss the moonlight, smooth and clear as the day. Come to me come to me come to me, I will have you, I must have you. I'm in the edge of the despair, the threshold of dimensions; universes compressed into neurons, connections among stars, wormholes through the grey matter of my endless world, mine alone, not be shared, broken, misspoken or appraised. Books and books flying in my mind, useless information, weak foundations, misinterpretations; Honey honey, can you hear me, fear me, spear me, love me, hate me, see me now? Float adrift in this sea of time, clocks ticking, flicking, licking my life away; burn the clock tower, hang the pendulum, let gravity take over, let it waste you away into blackness, darkness eternal and surreal, never to be understood or comprehended, excsessive in all dimensions.

Look at the faces on the wall, screaming down the hall, spurrious furious, dubious pronouns, unfinished verbs, words, morphemes, phonemes loud and unsure; hypothetical prepositions, inquisitions, superstitions, combinations. Have the weekend, take the paycheck, spend it, rend it, mend it, observe them, the blank people, shuffling about, bustling about, marching like ants. Isn't it nice to be alive? Isn't is nice to thrive, survive, surmise, to be creative, to be alone, to be strong, to be weak, to be a freak, to be a nerd to be a jock to be a geek to be a whore? To live to love to lie to die in this floating chunk of rock, flying, hurtling, bustling, away through space in this mad race that rages on each day around the sun?