The Weird Hell.

The brooding miracle sat in its soft
and infinite nest of emptiness, Al
Jolson's head is launched with a

cummerbund.
bummerfund.

Munich. Catburglers.
Do. It. Doggy. Style.

"And bite the neck.."

In a labyrinthine silver dungeon
of molten orgiastic bodies, light
moves as a half-head snake
from the miracle of the axe-stump.

Silver axe stump, when the dark green
beast men whine in the moon hall
polishing their adzes, when the odd
blue faced women they mate with
make movements like birds perched
on giant silver grimacing heads

"in a room of brooding heads.."

In our silver miracle of silent emptiness,
I am drawn to bite your neck.

I am drawn.
I am silver.

Inside a silver owl's eye,
like a hairless mirrored amoeba,
I bare my electric snake fang.

I tryst with colors
in old King Midas'
weird hell.