The Crystal Tide

The crystal tide roars and

crashes in my ears, systemic gears

thrash the world pain

The gain cranked to the level of

painful offerings, sacrifice eroded through the system of dark cries

The tissue of wonder torn umbilicus

where the healing worlds viralize the forceps of words

Tweezed out another one, the process delicate as baby's iron fisting of the crashed stormship

The commanders of galactic drug cartels slipstream their way through paralyzed rivers of limbs

Illuminating cosmic theater

rays of forced divinity sluice through vortices of wigged out ready to werewolves

The steamed punks slam their collective helmet down in

Disgust and strip off their data mind fields, gloves on/off switch bitch

The game's afoot, Watson, leaving our shapely impress like a sacred whore on her side

The shape of worlds to come balks account

The chemical tide I breathe like Whitman's instep

The chorus of time clatters scuttering robotic claws through sea hells

T.S. Eliot phoneme home

By the waters of Lethe the Rhine maidens gather storm drains like

Baseball cards

By the waters of Rimbaldian freaks, the data leak stops here

By the wounded, leaking, atrocious side of Mother Earth's womb, a blob of concrete steps up to bat

Crawling up the ladder of time's red hat

Cool inside as underworld characters at the body dumping park

Their faces filed down like intercontinental ballistic tissue specimens

The spies in the houses of the holy fold like a pack of cards in the spectral suite

Where twilight smokes its opioid strains and the foxes are hunting you

Where the fork tines stab special at the Dunkin Hound Quake

Where the thing at the end of the fork-you is today's Special

Naked lunch ends at sunrise

when we rise, eyes peeled for a

Nude dispensation

I am human and I need to be a data glove

I am hounded by the horses of opioids

I am hunted by heroin in sexy corsets and a black eyed grin

I am the wounds of the worlds of time's fleet arrows

A ship of sorrows launching from the star deck of

Time's quicklime light

Time shuts its doors open

Like a crashed Cadillac

Like a crushed circadian forceps, meat for the stargods

Like a radiant ocean full of imaginary criminals with glowing hot headlights

Like a Russian data drop at the foot of the bed of cosmic flowers

Opening their eyes like Rimbaud

Tickling the fancies of the cop and the priest

Who eat the tree of the fruit of the knowledge

Where, panic-stricken and scattered like plague fingers to the ends of the birth

Towards an end of beginnings, revolution seizes mind by the throat

Where the eagle glides on thermal jets of cosmicore

Where the rapture of raptor beaks pecks its way out the world egg

Egged on by international in the gloaming knowing

Of submariner life adjoining library shelves rayed out,

a suitcase of rainbows cascades its spectral merchandise

And the thing at the end of the final fork is you

And me

And music flattens itself out over the Russian stepsons

And music flatters the mass mind, like Nietzsche's sword, the time of the assassins has arrived

Oh Walt Whitman

oh Patti Smith

Oh Rimbaud

Oh Bram Stoker

Brewing horrors with data-drilling fingers

Bela's left the belltower, the virginal brides have gone to ground

And hunting knives of fascism flash like a word army brigade spat through the eye of a storm of cyclatrons

The precision uncanny, the time ripe, the fever arcing and descending through spirals

Where Edgar Allan Poe's masked balls to the wall mandate change

Where no ideas but in the singed sleeves of things bear Patterson away like a nude corpse

Where Emily's Planck constantly drifts to shipwreck with Huckleberry flashing his fins

Where Ahab seeks the pyramid scheme sewn inside the whale's sunrise

Ready to wear reality and shed it like a cheap suitcase full of spy secretions

The time of cosmicore arrives