The Muzak Of The Spheres

Presenting arms

asking hard-boiled questions

trading the possibility

that sometime in the near future

this prophesy comes true.


Cardboard profile

lifting the paved


foremost castle.


He who cups the hands

into the sign of post-trended


comes silently down the passage

into a place where only lip-service prevails.


Crazy line


over faces lifted high

and circumambulating.


Soaked residues

bask in the sun

and steam rises

to encrust and dessicate.


Heavenly tremble

seeing all the convolutions

in the process of baking bread.



so broken

task sharded into the many lifes

of harvest time

as the seed bursts.


Dancing in the moonlight

crying out

for more than can possibly be contained

in this pauper's place

yet instrumental

in coping

with endless rapture.


Tip-toeing again

this time into the prism

shafting light

eyes beaming

reeking of only-just-cut-up-in-time

as wafting and waiting

the jasmine rode lanes of purple porphyry

trancing lies

as they ricochet off walls of imprisonment

into traces of embolism.


Rogue playing dice with devices

draining the life-force–

kitchen richer than at possibly any time in the past

for the meal is so nearly ready

consummation of so many times

when you came so close

and inched your way to breathing

towards the light of day–

raising the tenor

shifting rhythms

placing the point in its rightful place

so that the melody comes in tune–

proof of that planetary quest

beyond the trophies of wrecked high-life.


"Inquire not into the truth

of the many layers

as each has its own inquisition"

nor begging the question

unpasting signs

which raked those eyes with lies

of ekeing out an existence

when so much more

was available and offered

unconditionally tainted with bliss.


Proof rocks the minds of many

linked to the quest

and narrows the scope

of panoramic inquiries

when time twisted the rafters

and the scope was narrowed.


High light

the muzak of the spheres

when lifting the light

rifted on crass rackets

of laden strikes

and pork-encrusted lakes

crying blight crimes

against humanity's appetite

for frozen food

blasting the roof-top open

so that the rain comes in soddenly.


Pin-hole vision

prime-time for cooking the waste

into a tasty meal.

"Suffer the little children to come emptily"

post-haste in case incarcerated prayers are left

to muffle the cries of open-ended pleasure.


"Seek ye not the praise of emperors."

Treasure the quiff

and the nigh-ripe lick of trees' fruit.


Umbrage coated with resin

soft-seamed lichen prefaces

the whole universal trip down the tide-line

so that in the morning light

you see that only in make-believe

is the trouble fully composed.


Pay the rent.

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