Mr. Stereo.

hepping the burly taser
to these indeterminate fingerings
upon the decadent decibelle

a phase shift registered
missive complaint

whose contour
could be said
but only just

or under
the snake-like
robustity
of serial knees
which although
independently swivelly
could no longer
muster the illusion
of a truly
yellow journalism
nor its beardsleyesque
neutronium of total
oom-pa-pa

it squirmed oddly
and made shapes
but was no longer much
concerned
with the focus
of a single directionality

sort of like
remembering a
coldish saturday
in the attic playing
dungeons, maybe being
a little too stoned, her,
your monk healing
while you dream alone
in the cedar dormer
of little bookshelves

'the sleeping prophet'

thinking of the smoothly
pink nacred insides
of the

itself
the
itself

smoothly thinking
its insides
lost forever
in its

insides

while the outside
seeming to get in

nothing the smell
of cedar
like
cedar
octopus
like a
ladder up to
the hole in a
giant head
of cedar