Jealous, Been Wary Though, Monumétal Hurlant.

It is therefore the image of an echo from the dream, of the brain and the raisin interposed and fluent in emerald whose populations of ever agitated surface dancers shield their presence in cobra hoods of smaragdyne peacock crystals ever fictitious as by their disjunction at the seem, therefore a gigantism is performed, and a static yet explosive descent in terminus in which the feathered emerald brain-raisin world is always splashing down into the endless alien ocean of time whose waters are as the cascading of form from form and thought from thinking, and whose worthless categories are as a sparkling of tautourobouric rings in constant rushing nimbus. What cuts and roars is the idea of what is, what is known and what has come against the backdrop of a near impenetrable blackness and certain silence save the screeching of anguished stars, their angelic torments beyond the reason of the frail organic, the smoke or singing, whose bodies are living ashes, no, the idyll content of being is the space of paradox, a constant skittering in place awaiting release into the machinic gas of a colonial farce.

Old raisin,
your lush skin
of fading candles
to navigate drunk
and lost
in some hall.