Vizcayana Neronis Grottis Amoebis Nenufar

http://www.vizcayamuseum.org/

photo tourism

&////&


A jellyfish cellphone
in roman sandals
wears a tricorne
along Miami's Venetian
causeway

//

tricrone!~
j'ai dit

//

Vizcayan Interludes, and apothecarian


night

mares:

Co. ROSARUM
Cof: NENVFARS
Co. VIOLARS. MART.
C. ACRED. CIT'

Sy: CIE:Simp.
Sy. ACRED. limo

//

Vizcayan Nightmare Cont'd:

at the altar of the 4 goat heads
a spider goat amoeba man child is laid down
upon the white marble

perplexed faun heads
hang from epiphytic cellphone towers
in a green smoke
of tiny winged mermaids

a stone ship slowly melts
before an imperious visage

giant melting faunheads
peer out from mangrove balcony boudoirs
grins frozen

mojito coral snakes
tide weird piebald busts
of velvety cherub rust

a sexy little ringtone
is taken by its authors
to sing
among the grottos

//

neronis amoebis, are
you taking the small
broken chinese maidensfoot
cellphone into your apocalyptrik
digiteria?

are you taking the negress furniture tomb
into your data mining hologrottorgasm?

Venetian gondola poles
look like legs akimbo harlequin
or wrecked astronaut industrialists
died nuzzling mermaid crotch
and covered over in a lava of orchids
and beans of labyrinthing pattern.

Married magic
stands before Bacchus
while the security guard
winks to dimpled sinister ghosts

"let me take your picture"
becomes the universal amphibological
metier, mentor, minotaur, mater

sections of capillaric manifold
become ornament

ivy lions vomit liquid diamonds
on the feet of a neverending trial
of severed heads

miniature canal works
house leaf gondola termites
lost in a rotting voudou mine

an eroded plaster coccoon
atop a column in the center of a mangrove
amphitheatre becomes the focal fetish
of the new religion of time
of the here to go choral
time of burning effigies

an eroded coccoon whose chassis
is like a water in stone
of stylized architectural ornament

a rude
mute clod
whose crispness
or intellgence
is the static
of a dark pulsing
sac containment
et croquelure

//

rice golem
flower golem
sand golem

heavy diesel truck engine
stuffed with sand
and seaweed
ends up like a cough
coming from a nosering
cellphone
hanging from a steaming plaintain
geolem

//

blood
and banana flesh
are mixed up
into a pudding
and made into a
boat-like face
which covers
the glory
or shame
of whatever it is
we think about

the oracle of the bottle
is the knowedge
that the drunken
universe is hollow
and that the pain
is empty

or waiting to be filled

//

vengeful spirits haunt
the tightly packed spaces in
the mirrored cloakroom

and they are all mad
and vain
with large mango colored cellphone

cherry stone nipple abraisons

//

white-haired frankenstein cellphone amoeba
a baby nero

is like a grain of rice
in your nostril

//

take lime mint and pineapple
rum and salt
and rub in the wound of your mind

rub all this
in the vagina heart tongue
of the jellyfish frankenapoleon's
cellphone goat heat altar

//

Rub Lilian Gish
into your Elizabethan treehouse sushi watch

Rub Marion Davies
into your South African gable
of clarks and petting Zeus

//

Pears grow in Palm Trees
Hotties lead hulking shadows
into mangroves of lingering feelings

eroded faces
get chewing gum beards
from disrespecting

ghost structure effluvia

//

your thing urface selachia
your latte' of lion waters
your campesono
your total body experience
like body glove hex in tooth partial bikini

//

ham
pork
and carnival

//

booty
codeine
ringtone

//

receipt
sap golem
plastic tweezer teaser

//

marble shower
marble tub
midnight fuck rub

//

man geisha
smell soapy
fall asleep
in padded Tzars

//

gps
south beach

deco
leggo
my echo

//

leggy monster
take calypso narrativo
take rum cocoa
and chili

take chilis
crushed in a marble skull

take hot pitiless olives
inside golden foil cherubs

take nude showers
in hot oil
from baby neronis amoebia
stone peepee garden boudoir

take electric mango sugar
from asscrack airways
now serving the entire megaverse
and greater Coral gables sushiplex
and plectrum

my submarine koto
is arriving in your
wad of hurricane jelly
for foofoo gumbo pastry
wattlings

//

a naked little boy standing
at the end of the pier
is pointing toward the sky

his face is like a crust
of machinery and crayfish
and he smells like paiella
and coffe and mispelled grotto
graffito

//

if that is lump
in the throat of the world
there is a chance
that you have swallowed
a blue sky cellphone
whose shaving kit

is a tapas mirror savage.

//

James and Charles Deering.
Their Library.

Miami as Venice.

Tourism
as Impish creeping
thoughts.