Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Dufawn Megshirrene, Abalone Gunmen.

In a castle like grey-cheese, or if its huge sad cranium rose up in a dim vault above the forest
what thin and luminous ghosts would loiter about its gates, lips draped in diamond chains floating loosely
like hair in the wind, each blinking link a hollow symbol filled with pressurized helium? Too rough. Marble goats line the descending path that ends at the rear of the amphitheater though their stomachs are glass
and each house a sleeping skeleton, death itself asleep, as leap, what happens to the peel, the husk,
the skewed and eternal eye within? green banana corn pines. no answer to delicious monster. no resolution
for golden slipper mask and his shadow-wheeled armor cone. as we approach the oracle, we notice an aroma, then the strange suit of blue cake, the tiny animals living inside. If their bodies are lenses, what exactly
passes through them? Mechanicality itself, conscious of itself as a pluromal manifolding?