Satanic Panic in the Attic
our universe is nice in its hair breath softnesschallenging air brained logic in a desolate sodium wilderness like a mustard dungeon I sit with a brick braced under the pit of my arm draining my ego mechanically like a metallic dollsinging with burnt tonsils a singed solo to delight the mute mouths that smileand letting go of the string while with a depressive’s disgust a black balloon escapes the metropolis of months through a coagulated hole in the sky and the clamoring pedants repel the rushing wave of pregnant myth conveyed by men bathed their syrup of prosaic prattle flooding with filth, though still languid and still, awakens a comatose aestheticismin the mongol weeping bitterlygalvanizing the audience in fitful pleasure contaminating the animated pipers wearing diapers and Brits with the shits
a sound signal from above sends headless helicopter pilot’s wives running for their liveslapping up pastoral landscapes like pale milkand undoing knots in a siren of silk
the reader is put to taskwhen there is no face behind the mask
O.M.
