The Hallucinogenic Rooster

By David White

The Hallucinogenic Rooster is a moment captured in time, a dreamlike and nightmarish expansion of one brief moment.
In a place called Fairy Tale Town, some years ago, I walked with a girl I was in love with among grimy fantasies; a concrete Pirate ship, a castle and drinking fountains in the form of hippos and tin soldiers. Strange music came over loudspeakers.
Three of us (we were baby-sitting her sisters infant) as a sort of makeshift family walked in this strange place. I watched a rooster walk in and out of shadows and light. I hallucinated that I was seeing its molecules and atoms coming apart and reassembling in bright colors.
I chose this event to represent the moment when we could have spoken to each other with our hearts but instead kept our silence. . .
This book is a sort of poetic expansion of that brief, lonely and beautiful moment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469108216

David White

David White was born on 30 October 1967 in Manchester, England. A former professional footballer, he played as a forward from 1986 to 1997. He is best remembered for his eight-year spell at Manchester City. He also played for Leeds and Sheffield United, and was capped once by England.

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Copyright © 2005 by David White.

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Contents

PART I

PART II

PART I

Burning, the hallucinogenic rooster, a fish on fire, sees out his eyes, sees brains swimming in tiny galaxic oceans, swimming in numbers on fish freeways on the edge of timeless grey, feels December on the edge of freeway concrete. The hallucinogenic rooster crows and blasts light out across the sea. it doesn’t matter, the girl holding a dark man’s hand. we all get well, this cancer time making us thin, going down to closed cinemas for a time. they swell into mushroom clouds, swell into light in a trailer, a boy behind a bar door.

Numbers flash behind a wall in a crash and blast of a last party then on to the hallucinogenic freeway to see how it looks in America, so familiar, so comforting seeing that we are secure on lonely death concrete that stretches to the mountains, afraid of strong imperfection outlasting our empire. Tires roll and in little brown plants plant hearts tick invisible, the curtain blows and says, Where do we go after this?

to locked and long locked doors? thoughts to long beasts? we inhabit a perfect capitol with stone hallways and pretty girls wearing all kinds of perfumed swamps and ideas about death, barefoot in rooms doing homework on each other kissing the romantic. she feels in love as long as bills are paid even if he feels tired, feels nothing.

this book must be about nothing, everything, any word, any thing, any reason or reasonlessness, any redundancy to dance again with the hallucinogenic rooster the hallucinogenic cock. for no reason he blasts out a fish eye (another) and even Mr. dead wakes, comes alive on a concrete slab and begins to sing the concrete star spangled banner as he urinates inside his death throes.

it might be sexy, funny, or political satire (the only way is to let everybody have power and let them fight it out). why get a job when I can sit and speak with the gods-electrical? Why suffer ambition when I have found a complete circle, a way to hold a mirror to my unconscious mind and see what lurks there (dancing with the hallucinogenic rooster, lighting matches to fish)?

and see Christmas light future. how can I let out ghosts, demons and seductresses if I can’t hear them, see them, feel them and the heat from atomic blasts. oh these days we spend wondering about dropped bombs and stolen kisses. A president and Andrei hide in a back room to fondle each other’s missiles.

Oh Andrei be careful. I might go off

in a lover’s tiff their armies squirm and struggle together on battlefields, homosexuals clutching in love and misery, in grisly dark death.

The full title is; The Hallucinogenic Rooster and the Burning Fish, a Marine Band Marches Through Her Hollywood Neck & I Woke up Screaming Because my Mouth had Wet Pink Lips & Frankie goes to Hollywood, Nanook of the North.

In this book they undress children for school, ring the bell to find out what’s going on in a rooster cellar where roosters cawk and caw on dirt floors next to stone walls. Drive to Soilland and see soil samples from all over the greater part of the county. There’s a big competition by museums to get soil samples . . . industrial sparks and all that too. "It’s so exciting to raise this curtain on yet another afternoon of mysterious fry-cocks. she takes our electric desires, drains them then drowns them in the earth, blue sizzle spark jazz babies perking up their tiny unlikely ears.

In this American camel lunch, this all-is-unlikely swimming chaos soup, an unreachable untouchable touchable reality is reached. she might suddenly burst out a camel fry-slip and off-slip cancer and we’d be laughing, having an anti-cancer party, our hearts pumping. we think we can live forever, take careful steps but still we’ll end on a slab in a basement at the winery, our muscles stiff mollusks. no matter how much rent we used to pay, they’ll cart us out in a basket so you’d better find a way to go you like, want and will, whatever makes you

Smile, makes you sing in the streets—there’s nothing else really none of us will make it.

It’ll come bursting out your chest. It’ll make you happy. How do you do, with sincere ribald laughter. there’s no sainthood no surprise puppy meat jack-in-the-box so no use crying over the real.

Attack the bush monkey dancing in the can.

The title of this book is; How to Blue Angel your Heart-Mechanics, Swizzling by the Sea; All the answers. Can I speak to you? but what kind of a title is this?

I’ll shorten it to Shoppers Redemption Pamphlet, 101.

they are giving notice at the Chinese restaurant. each and every grain of rice is now a tiny being, a grain of sand too, one of many squirming on beaches at noon, squiggling on TV between channels. What do you think of procreation? are you against it? silver death cold blades sliding between ribs as you fall out a window like a wino, seven stories down into a storm, onto a parking lot, getting a ticket because you haven’t paid to park your exquisite corpse that still speaks all kinds of rumblings and humbugs under a bridge on a cold December night.

you remember that cold boyhood trip to the sea, to the edge of the land where you fell off the map by some tiny sheds. you wonder what all lost history is about. where does it go and what does it want? What is this lunch we are constantly looking at. all I want is to be tired and in love, have millions or be able to hear the song of my spine, have a toilet that works in the midnight frequency of French lessons, lesions or legions marching through her arc-dutriumph in triumph.

All I want is some triumph and shopper’s redemption you know the kind and I don’t even care anymore if you spell honking horns backwards in a tunnel. such a joke is pale pleasure I know so

I can’t. did you know that the earth could crack open? That is all we know. I am an addict. I am no good anymore. I have been spoiled by the insides of words, dictionaries to make me spell nonsense words and numbers all over the place, make the unreal real.

here we go down the Ferris wheel with a monkey-girl.

what shall we do about it this time get inside the tailfin of a red cherry lick down the rust like a child again caught up in metal I can smell the gas in the tank. where are we going. where are we going with run over dogs and cats. there once was a rainy day in the park and we all huddled by a fire for a few minutes of pleasure the way we rocked dawn at the party house golden horned cartoon presidents sitting for photographs we don’t want another wall.

remember, this can be anything so don’t try to make it something because this page can be filled with all sorts of melted violins & her flesh sleeping on V street (all that that includes). I bet she’s moved by now so there’s no use crying this lonely wet dog in the hills, Beatles music flirming red at the (you can’t tell when I mean to spell a new word such as spnell or gravito-rotors for swinging ray-o-lawns, creecy flauds over somnambulist’s high priest pope-rays, frozen crusts of a destrected rim-chaserless, the recamu-ay). can’t you think of a nuisance tune or, why don’t you cry more in a blue pale of ray chandler’s ecstasy, the I-can’t-think-of-ruining-june pools, the all you can eat parade, the she-girl on pantified rejay-matic high speed guns, the slam-door shur-ray movie lights, the girl-o-matic rehersa-paletic. put your bag in a head will you smell me o-guns, synthetic juice-farms on fire as x-ray armies penetrate fabricated battlefields of Antarctic ray-o-harps, the

Hallucinogenic rooster plays the harp-on-fire.

We can’t tell you what these things mean only that they matter, this going down to the cliff and falling in the sea or out seventh storey windows . . . in a storm onto a real live western show, troubadours traveling door to door finding happiness in yellow curtains, in a ray-dawn, in dark passageways, quality of life such that when you walk down hallways you are suddenly drained of electric nonsense and fall in her bed blank. A stumbling orchestra.

some of this more than by-god has to make sense by the firelight. we have to make up stories people want to hear for chrissake and for which they will pay money, for while you know the heights of it and jail crenalins, she will want me to be in her movie head and I missed my chance to get in her movie pants over the top wall of brick. he never argues this Sacramento Antonioni, jets in my pants (the jet age in my pants) going on thirty-nine and still I have all these jackets to make . . . still have to roller-skate to my job, still have to roll a roll-matic in a serious note of a thousand words or more, loosening up a page or two or five or thrive a day this daily clage of page and miratty, careful bloom of gloom and sea-chanties. all this must come to fruition on a barn roof. I can easily type out a note of urgency on a neon stumble-curtain, a pale addict slow in rooms huddled about a fire with the juice of it all. meaningful about to say that in justice town there is a chance of falling into an addict’s paradise of information, illusion of going to work with clever titles and nothing or at least a little riot, a little more of these lonely housewives going mad crazy to horny lonely in front of the TV. did you masturbate today? to clear out the clogged tubes better than your average fall-off-a-cliff-notes you sing when you tumble and fall off carefully placed furniture this day-diary of war. mutilation and happiness, rapes and two-headed babies.

Consider the rope on fire the hallucinogenic rooster plays the harp-on-fire and considers the burning fish. What more on TV nurturing NBC and all that alphabetness wetness. could you consider? cold gentle shakes do you want the cold gentle snakes? her soft fibrillites in drowning pools. the hallucinogenic rooster plays the burning harp and considers the fish-on-fire, considers his blind hand, hair on his eyes, calls tooth radio and resists shooting the inevitable dogs. a confusion of wires, radio tubes on fire belching a miserable smoke, hero sandwiches all around, the movie lights pounding on the nuisance in the séance. is there a message for me? In all this sea of the monster’s picnic noose?

oh way owail! this fishy heads this curls and curtained this pink and ribboned ice this blue ruin pale white and violins this talk show raise the high-way raise the fires the burning itch and her febrall shadow fi-bivalves opened for the jury rain squeezing the dog. oh careful the gentile tile, the bed and breakfast, the going loose file curtains, the repeat diction dictionary, the real beal, the flotsammed seal, the bat between the eyes, the floundering joycean fibrillating scintillating christ with bare heart open to flames. a dictionary for this kind of day o day o day o the rooster crowing each and every 3-6-5 jail and journey around the sun so far from cold hot Pluto moving in dark closets, underwears of the souls this day-cock on a happy trip tripping cocks journeying trumpets strumpets parties and crazy barn-yard action up a narrow-to-burst on a lightning square, the guill-o-tine about to come down on an angel. start and startle he opens the door and you come in with a breeze. you think you think you can do it all suddenly in a quiet hopeful breezy day, the studio pounding out a happy breeze blue this i-o-u this and no more than three-hundred and sixty-five pages at the farm the seeds each op-popping to open an eye. do the dishes they seem to be saying, a whole farm of mad meat puppets and blow-monkeys in this hurly-gurly breeze, this high-priest pastey of go, this jass-age dancing on the anvil, these cartoon flame hells, this reunion soiled and soiling in a sad so—breeze, this river cruise down over-buried addicts-of-life, the small muddy things dying in deep blood-red mud. I’m going to wheel you into Canada, this green blue palace of the mind, Canada as it exists in the ice folly parades in halls of the deep fall pools down the avenue part and picnic, sleaze on a heez-oi a bright heez-oy beauty neon sign giving us a table, a clink of arm and armor, love-in-sun amour, a jaily-roilly particle called neon gas in tubes, soul of god and the good humor man, holy cathedrals to the hot-dog.

these drim-dogs no longer extinct, come up as they do now out of breem—Hawaiian holidays sweet as the inside of her mouth a hummingbird trapped in her quiver.

a doorknob to a bent future.

the reverend bounce-paps as they attack the battle blues, the big mambo chile’ kids locked in a car full of tired beeze-oil, one or more numbers, four or fourteen, bake-o-lite 24 or twenty-two, numbers for everything six and say-four, this careful calibrate 38 o-fourteen, this rareful 88, this day-o-matic, this anything you feel, 52 big ads for mambo child bouncing on flipped sky blues 48 this time no rhyme, Shakespeare and his pretty leer 5’s, fours, twos and eights. see how many you can commiserate on down to funky town doing brakes in the rain love child. Locked doors. Organ playing behind locked doors.

the dog-o-matic flipping. how do you know until you try? Bale-pulling on smoke playing in dream nuddles. six o’clocks, red lair, bean dipple awn light, crill belittle crist nickels, chair-o-matic, rill bene-dells, the scrill, a flapping rail fish pick and nick old bales rick feeks, the chicks and creeks own paddle-full quail at rane heights. at ben’s there’s real flint pig’s knuckles, at her breast all flowery at the chile screen pale knuckles, at the wren nails and daddy-o flail-and-buckles. this life oh this life on and on. we die-o a thousand deaths before the one, the shower sixes, the kiss-and-tells the long golden bells afright at her wedding bay, caught in a childress flail out in silver sunlight hay, anything I want on this again Thursday on the rye, on quay and crillo-orans, on to rally’s height. On to birds and chillo’ren as cute as date and dale, as can angle the brillo-pads, the wren-birds on the spring mad in rotten winefruit. A party to the wind

& land as she blows timeless down boulevards endless in sleep as in wake as in day as in night down out the end of star’s hole, out the end of end for

33 years or even more . . . it don’t mind. it doesn’t want you to sing in the street, a drunk with pale-o-swarty, with abbey’s words to-the-wise. She ‘ad her operation and it was a success, a king would be proud of the end of the line, opft the train rails go out spooky to the edge of time a rope of smoke waitin’ for his majesty already waiting hanging from that tree a smile there he goes for you and me . . . Got no need for kings, such as the hung cock-o-the sun, the Sunking as he hangs off anti-gravity for a moment until he’s daid and then cut down. they sing songs and parades and march with his heads on poles and a day o’ feastin’ on death but no matter. we’ve had our kings and enough. Now we have our bright not so new now shiny machine, Machine king, king of the air hanging back from the tree again. no matter, mom, with revenge we’ll soon be there back again and the king with his hat on we’ll be tappin’ on our noon graves.

the sun-king machine feasting on our demise. all rise all rise all rise, the sun in our sweet sky, on noon of days all sweet rays casting ballots in our hearts full of all the brightness walking the streets of memory mumbling.

it’s a sparky Christmas, god mute and mumbling in sorrows over the supermarket loudspeakers. they just allow him to announce sales now crying in his salt soup whipping him for shoplifting that turkey meat.

She was such a sweet eye such a smile-in-the-fat, such a red-burn hot and secret wild charm-in-bones for no reason in her arches teeth and tooth in a palace of Bach crazed spinning organs underground at forty five miles per hour in the Frankenstein light being remade but that is another, her burning secret watch filler, a hand worker in red spark hair, a belly in nelly, a shake-a shake-o move in middle pools of white careful angel tears, layers of. hot and hot buildings full of red jelly fish flying spelling out the history of the cell universe in Atlantis coming in her naval ships, going out in the crease of her arm a total highway of cars in her dimples, kitchens of smile food. you could bite her meat there, boiling a randy mountain goat hairs all in and out the compass on the seas, the concrete bunkers breaking open, the penguins spilling out born crazy onto the ice.

these cocks, they just want in. they just want to tree inside the neck ache stars, the wet door, the hinges a strong wood propelled in at propellor-speed, 80 black unknown female places it seems to know has legs and dark stairs, knock and stumble around in the attic grandmother’s old seed carried down from the shake-o-lantern stars, the singing voices the hallucinogenic rooster singing to the stinging harp considering the fish-on-fire peter pan shining right through concrete steel and glass hotels flying with his cartoon dream bridges. oh he was inside and the door was locked, the bartender on her back on a pool table what happens? a four way street to the cannibals anyway, as I was saying and her husband comes to the door and sees them through a crack and breaks in. at the grissom ranch and Trent runs out the back pulling his pants up and the bartender’s husband threatens to kill. him if he ever catches up to him and puts her in the hospital her legs sore over at the north star where mirror tiles, the bath house and glisten circle lights are on fire in a catholic remembering. he’s sorry now he loves her. she won’t let him touch her bruised cheek so clear on the escadrill . . . to neck rusty into hot ape at the tap of grandmother’s old seed singing considering thing, feet, such a fairly to forty-

from the shake-o-lantern stars, the rooster singing to the stinging harp ripe and cherry pink very parts. a collar standing in the green innocence friends and lovers but in a dream it’s december

Easter of her in the fieIds one last pure friends we are, even and not that warm warm and she never smiled at me but she smiles. I won’t dare love her but we can be friends in an unemployment dawn, secret submarines.

belly, dirt in her day of ray-a-light, after all friends but in the dream it’s me in the dream I dream—this cold tryin’ to feast on a day so clear out on the escadrills . . .

unending dramas between men and women. I’m sharing her around the clock so where does this put us now, over at drill headquarters, the barbecue going on the fourth of July, a long way off the translucent girl standing in the rays this so long page floating down from the stars, that elevator with hitler’s bottom dropping out and he falling down through all my dreams of world conquest, each and every building having paintings by me and paper drill planes. robot mothers shrieking. it’s enough to give me a sense of humor that white horse falling in the mud, all the stockbrokers on their phones.

oh it’s too much to catch every ray of Saturn. it’s too much to fill every bunker with penguins. it’s too much to sing out walrus tunes and bellow targets for chimes with hitler at the Christmas carols. it’s too much to see what modicum of palavers crill at bones rattling their meaty cages to get out, oh and oh this new year going mad at the Bit-O-Paris motel where jesus throws an orange chair through a restaurant window. oh neon cow how do you do it, jump over the moon every minute or two? chill out crafty electricity, a dam-o-hair flowing out the ever-lake, post-cards of all the smiles by the, you know, that thing, that shiny thing. the sun is turned inside-out and made into star-juice making my hair dry, liquid dessert, a liquid chill electric dessert making the passenger swallow at the cross, oh. sing in the weeds. What time is it for the robot mothers. the angelic sweats between the legs.

a smile coin.

Mr. Biko’s radio show, music from the shun-wagon, the bakeo’s at half-speed, the roof of leaning frog brakes, the shower curtain rube-bounce halo girls at the red San Francisco, chun-rummies at bake-o-lite radio chests with the small painted fish tea? yes-s-s and more up-dance in your dream pools . . .

in all her naked glory oh, oxygenating in the glorious glistening sugar webs. For some reason she feels sorry for my ache, wants to heal it with her mouth her hands her heart her body. For some reason there are Chinese people waking me up to see a rainbow . . . and clouds swirl in a hole in the sky, gold light coming through a misty palace distance and ‘ski shop’ whatever that is spinning off a scrim-cycle delight, curls and there’s snow and I go back to sleep. oh D. I don’t know now. the whole dream comes back of loving you, the whole of you and vague but magic holy plans for a life with you. your body—us in cold beds huddling hiding from winter, us in another green world tops flying at the dew one perfect day dancing on the grass and such and such and such the buried burned dime.

I want to be tired and in-love the sun coming off your breast where are you now? in some bed sleeping tonight tossing turning in your forgotten hair such chemical joy such compromises for no particular reason the water’s gone down. each and every perfect moment frozen. I have them, tiny jewels lost when I fell down and didn’t get up, tiny jewel memories unnamed stars. how I saw you the way no one else saw you and your face and your smile and your eyes looking into distant mountains hills creeks the town the cabin us and now you are lost in the crowd so plain so lost so nothing except once I loved you down to the bottom of your tender lost feet so small so gone how I didn’t want you and tossed you in a backyard of weeds, the setting sun and TV aerials on roofs . . . Go all the way in that long lost window brother knocking at the door little Alice in Atlantis underwater holding her breath fighting off the hawks in corridors, slime Vikings half-mad all-festering with tubes, falling on your innocent shriek-neck, temples bubbling and grain-organs, her innocent singing (hard to do underwater) pure, light battle aliens remnant in of octo-jellyfish bubbling with fury hatred (I must stop and explain this at this point) under the sea crushed by steel water. She sings her high cute song swinging her blade hopefully through the guts and colons of madness, brains spitting out, bloody eyes trapped falling back into starless darkness that grabs her down into effervescent neon fishes burning at the auto-harp.

what Atlanteans that are left stumble blindly into a blade lured by the little girl’s light-and-song in a stupor of endless sleep. they rise Draculas out of blood bathtubs festering with medusa-eels eating out their cranium. (I must pause here) She has come here this Alice in Wonderland, she has fallen down a hole in the ocean and arrived to strike blows for innocence, spread light and kill the old angry furious red-blooded heartand-mind rotted to the core death, the worm-hole flesh. She has a magic blade and battles the old hag lizard-women with movie lights attached, hacks at the fat-blooded bankers with their big swells and dangling hair-sausages (let me apologize for this) between their legs laughing as they pull them up and suck the puss of it. she bashes bloody menstrual cramps flushed down toilets swirling with tiny-eye fetuses catching on her arms, squishing up and under her dress, squealing crying strange pigs from a strange undersea Atlantean day, airplane wreckage all over the city, skeletons animated by monkey-sea nuclear waste amber in glowing tubes in Oppenheimer’s wife’s womb, skeletons dancing the shamble-screams again as they crumble.

The little girl with her endless opera song sings of god and streets singing happy-clam cathedrals and candy drug parlors, sings of mother’s tubes, fish in the time creme.

She sings of guitar knees, rock-and roll blue paradise, sings of innocense and endless food at the paradise markets, all kinds endless vegetables plates teas saucers and whole kingdoms of talking dolls. She sings parades of shining aliens in bondage, of the giant white knight with a head the size of an elephant, a slit in the wall that pours out gold and silver coins, tin coming off your night tossing & turning in compromises for no reason and every moment perfect. owned and don’t get up. no one else saw you or the eyes looking into us. and now you are gone except once I loved you.

so now she screams as she is knocked loose from the ridge by the cabbage farm. I didn’t know her as she plunged down into mean rotating knives of an open-gutted mechanical octopus death (bats frying out the crill) as sharks moved in to start shredding her sweet small belly, chew on her womb-cord and head, snap arms legs, gnaw on feet gristle and snap-plunge two foot long sharp teeth into eyes but she starts singing again her holy innocent song and comes together again (in a Frankenstein electrical snap) and picks up her blade to do battle again, the wild stinging harps, the mangle choir of destroyed red sirens, lost beauty in a fat-conveyor this 8-9-7-3.

flying saucers attack and fry her face. the submarines plunges the large blue needle in the stick-temples pinning arms.

the skeleton crew sings their blind sea-chanty plucking their hogs and dogs, skeletons looking for meat to tape to their hollow rotted craniums . . . any tiny bit of flesh left in a skull, stolen by a finger through an eye socket nose hole or up under the edge skull helmet, grabbed onto a tongue then the tongue torn out and eaten by a presidential candidate, dropping down through a hollow rib-cage onto the floor oh Alice, swing and fight off slime brute dead lizard alien behemoth stenches for a millennia until the sun burns out. you see it a tiny star-dot dripping silently up into water a ripple like a distant golden jewel

Your fight for . . . ?

and we see lights crawling up the chromosome tree. the wild sting corpses at it again.

Well. The radio farms just are not the answer. The dust, graves by the sea, long black and white priests holding their gawk-bones.

I want to stop here to talk about wild flowers.

There is no place to go away from the wind, whipping trees and leaves and sleeves, a dot-pattern light swip and pipping endless in a mad beauty universe, so much endless endlessness, lights from early 1950’s in my brain a chemical still. I see them the lights with mother’s milk and love and warm arms food in the kitchen, tall bellies on warm nights cold at the fire place trying to stay warm. I didn’t know we were poor. we had food, water, shelter, not much warmth. it was cold late at night I could see stars between shingles on the roof a state of mind, so arbitrary this happiness, good, bad and good laughter. and you know that inside the fire bells ring. heat is long out doors in blue windows from distant frightening porchlights where all sorts of strange people lived each in a movie, strange kill houses on hills in fright stormy winters, floods and hurricanes. people shot with bullets. you can see if you look close in films or videos, hillbillies, talking pigs and strange laughs, gunfights, Indians, tall presidents shot all sorts of strange worlds.

Atlantis rising from the sea.

just over the hill I see lightning halls of congress. they are electrifying the president down-town.

lightning halls of congress going down shining him under the lights electioning him, praising him riding him in big fancy cars. a friend saw home movies of him being elected and then they shot him in national lights, strange, true and wonderful and you wonder what’s going on just over the hill, the leaning tower of Pisa

Napoleon fighting cannons going off but all you see is traffic, hot-rods, school buses and smell of wet kids fighting on the playground. when do you get to grow up and join history. I look out small high windows on endless afternoons of repeat numbers, old dead cowboy movies and wonder when it’s going to happen throw another log on the fire. I’m incredulous when she tells me that the right and the left socks she’s putting on my wet feet are the same, why I can see by looking at them they’re different . . . big toe on the left big toe on the . . .

and now dust they store in radio stations is filled with long afternoon light activating them into radio shows, old news, weather reports and assassinations, all those days and ways. the crazy man walks up the ramp again and again and again, the warehouses all full and empty of rain buckets, barrels of simulated rain ready to be let loose.

laugh and laugh. you know what it means.

you wanted to lose. you wanted to sit and let it fall all over you, red chips plaster and gold handed to you because you have been waiting for it but mostly you just wanted to show that it wouldn’t make any difference that you (I) could make it on the sex scales, the long blue slides, the cold silver blues, the high heights and suffocating depths, in the weeds, on paved or over mountain ranges, on the presidential lap kissing in a close closet smothered by a submarine. you wanted to prove you were Santa Claus, that you could make it without effort find, just find Randy Moon.

somewhere an american is dancing with a chicken.

in this error-loom. paintings silently hiss on suburban lawns to show their wax and wane dreams and dream in me as I work out end tunnels and drip-mines, the slog and push of grass. they fill me with old priest’s bones. I’m not going to make this into something am I? am I? madonna coming naked out the bag lights coming down the street. what do you make of this long night and nightfall’s sneaky dreams, the long evening suicides full of hangings, knifings and self-denial, all those killing lies, all those strangled loves. what do you think. what do you think of that? what do you do?

pink such an unlikely.

all I can think of right now is those talking dogs talking about Christmas in the submarines. They bite at my tires, sit around the fireside in the middle of nowhere blackness. a chromosome tree of lights magnifi-jollies and killer dogs come out of their shells, their cold teeth dancing with her. she’s a cold night, and all I’m doing is turning around with faith staring child-eyed (this is all with such a child’s brain all open and anything. what could it be?) staring at the brittle lights of Boonesville.

I turn around in a driveway and three vicious horrible breathing things come out of the night. such a lonely discovery out in blast cold stars come close to lick your neck popsicle death cold Christmas. they go back and huddle under their cold bushes, out their eyes such in-the-light bite tires. what they sink their teeth into, warm this night, metal the cold taste of it in your mouth, metal. what can you make of this curious night dance with her she’s a pale light you feel her in the oven. you feel her how she is and beat of her heart you wish on your own cadaver soul, bleeding out to all-noons, beyond December to the month before January when the comets all sleep in the cold cold ground by the mystery train. can’t you see them reading can’t you see the ghost cars the wind blowing on a soft guitar of your old truth hanging yellow in unnatural light? unnatural light from an arm left in a bathroom with cold blue fingers. can’t you hear elvis howl it out, basedrum beat on a tuba. she’s so. Can’t you hear elvis (beat the dogs) howl out his song, pale white Elvis-light howling on the mystery train, the christmas lights brittle in a cold-dog sky a serious orchestra dying in their own electric corpses, singing in the rain, the worm twisting through the singing corpses.

In the baggage skeletal dogs howl an elvis howl out your mystery train in your belly and such obfuscating angels steal away wells, tiny bells blinking in eerie halloween christmases, altars to bleeding red lights her drippings.

We are going to china-town, where they closed down, where neon bleeds in chinese windows and toy-dancing unreal magic is and the pretty living dolls to take you in to yourself, into dark basements, into some kind of sea-bottom suffocating in a wall where faces . . . tink tink those bells. such x-mas as we might imagine, metal roads and cold cold fangs barking into out of cold trees a different thing.

How it is stretched up. smile lonely as midnight construction sights. the TV on in her head. where did she get it? What happens all these bleeding nights, cold enough to swallow her in frozen sleepless ashes. Who feeds those dogs do you dream angels, cold church pork? do you marvel at the tree, protect some god-of-underwater? too conscious, we are too conscious a cold black engine on fire in movies of the mystery train.

I have to get it out. white light turns a twist in her mystery arms.

I have to guess the lines, play the unwritten parts. I have to turn into some empty halls and say it once. these dogs don’t smile back. don’t let her smile into my cold face dance all she wanted to do was dance and her ample bread hangs upside-down on a white . . .

What these stars, cold flowers, what this white secret, what the next word, horses unborn dead will tell. fall loose cattle in dreams flying 200 miles per. she waits in a dream, warm wet in a bathtub again looking up with soft wet arms, warm inside the bed soft brains next to a wall. she is here her female time dripping out reaching to the endless seduction. she reaches out in a dream her dogs calling. she again waits in the bathtub willing time, dripping, holding dear life on the tip of her erect nipple ready to drop back into empty space oh she’s long in a dream of bubbling bread, red flesh sleep sparks. Those dogs barking at her car. steel looks coming out of cold dark dog stars welcomed to the rooms, cold blank bleeking stars, angels going at ninety red menstrual glow and spike-o-x-mas oh ow! oh santa with a world. swirl it in your astronomical belly

I saw those cars. I saw those rusty cars, all the dogs in the world, the rusty cars so absolutely below rust in sleep. can you hear them cold-cry. she so in dreams and I can’t get away from dreams-come-real. give me a chance this junk-car on the edge of a neanderthal painting in her cave, she so long ago muttering angel a tiny drop of time hanging on her wet nipple. still she is there, all time memorialized in my curious mad strange protein; the mirror that is me, locked horse stables, the gore inside that makes her so sweet, her yielding trick-of-light flesh sleep-breathing apparently real but figment of my imagination.

oh. she’s no angel ghost god-out-of-halloween ground hallucinogenic harps playing wet roosters.

this can be anything, collecting reflections off floors. she doesn’t want to see me catching up to the wood dark back cellar . . . all the poverty. we can go on we can do it we can see her bewildered look at the door. she waits yellow all wet in the tub dream.

those broken TV s exhausted blending in a fog gone cliff edge, romance out a drop-by-the-sea-window. she wanted to go with me but I didn’t believe in romance anymore, so drive yourself honey down that lonely rival road and swim, swim in the sea-onfire with your rosey rose-face. I know every trick of the joker hormone. pulling his wild strings.

Oh, soft lovely gristle of violin strings, underwater by a broken heart that keeps on ticking in some ambulance ad, keeps on dripping her endless heart, this repeat, this washing machine that keeps on feeling blindly by the freeway for hope and finds it in the smell of a candy wrapper. this thirteen ways to build a hospital. this thirteen ways to walk on heart’s carpet. this thirteen ways to pull a joker from the bathtub drain this lovely suit of lights-go-out butterflies on the towels.

be there in a cloud of dinosaur dust I don’t know where I am lost in rust lost in these places and places, sudden backdrops & stage props, lives falling over, paint coming off on hands, sudden doors locked or empty behind fake doors painted on walls, trapdoors sprung and dropping us up to sky curtains parting on brick walls with lights snapping on showing off the nothing in windows or on painted-on cities, trees made of balsa wood, leaves of paper smiles painted on eyes cheeks faces, whole bodies dancing. but it’s an illusion a shadow-play reading the script but there is suddenly nothing something which is nothing in smaller and smaller parts the sky even flat and unreal a cloud a tiny cloud high up and painted orange-shrimp colored rising, rising, rising.

a bucking bronco machine.

a street that leads up to a fantasy bar with an electric waterfall that signs, Icy Mars with cartoon breezes, a fake alligator juice noon moon in your tea rising up and sweet horror bricks to the sound of gravity, smell of cold fishy fingers, a bucking bronco. harp. bottle and a curve in violin street. a fantasy ghost comes at you tiny nail holding the scene from falling apart. that dog barking at the bucking bronco. I have nothing to say up in lights, the show over. it’s all gone, the inspiration for this book, a diary of all our days racing through a universe. they crucified a vitamin salesman instead.

inspiration in a horse’s head. this true bend. and by the park, she cries (about strawberries) in the rain.

Nothing less than the moon. go up through Vacaville hearts, through the hiss of freeways up through cartoon lightning passed your eyes passed your blonde look and feel-fall, the holy lake of air beneath your bare naked feet as hair on end. you rise up to the rolling moon slow-by-slow, the desert soul of it a hundred-billion years of graves out a hole falling through black velvet curtains the sunny rose in your hair. such a star gloom, out here the cold and bold out here the 3-D orbiting.

the way we go about it, what it feels like motels on the moon-Wyoming, the big fat angels with beards dusting in rustic tumbled down shacks sleeping for a winter in the ice those dinosaurs.

It’s incomplete without you. why is it the last thing on the edge of hanging off the planet to tell you I ache for your very own.

achy sugar-flesh of you dreams-are-made-of-this pterodactyl dreams, lizard. all the chromosomes dreaming so strongly you can smell them shouting, killing in the streets for love love and love. arrest that soul, arrest that lively bubbling juice in noon suns, arrest and lock up the monster love the fire heat fish-in-sky.

oh break open the eye-of-god his sleeping white-stained. numbers coursing through his veins and boyhood napoleons attacking in glorious battles for for what? the moon? battle for the fish-ships, space cigars on the moon with Twisto-ers on fire, the corner of the room way down under carpets out the end if you want to find a fuzzy very small TV maniacflesher burning as he sits on a hot-wire silver chair propelling a governor to the stars.

the moon this time. all the way crying over strawberries on the golden bus, fading city-hill Ocean-ville ahead or behind us tumbling down the grey-hair concrete ribbon. she clutches her bare blonde, her naked bus on the back as we go down fighting locked in perfect dream-ambered storefronts. and he protects her from us, our talk pressed up almost naked by the cold suspense of glass, the barebacked blonde in just panties and bra, a fleshy warm neck and shoulder soft that bounces when she moves slightly giving me that oh-so-secret soft look. You know the one. That says you’re next. do your male.

she’s so.

Everyone talks but she whispers to my eye my belly croon and music in warm baths harp and angel-fire flying down through multi-colored sky. You know why. crying over strawberries.

In the park.

the lonely hearts club band has just finished, weeping by the albino bulls, the Mae west organs. They have just finished playing all our tunes and frozen in the neck of time, pale white, streaks of snow at the zebras heart. They lament, they swill, they hair and photo-flash. they count dirt and swirl the tongues-o-flash. they count and mangle streets. they elephant neck and energy down-count to the June of dreams twist and shout. they foal, they train, they daisy and flight. they have a nice day in the park footloose and stage shiny bricks, neon palms and plus-o-shout. They go all the way to

Venus and mars, swirling in the dark, a syrup light tunnel for the pyramids, all the flash-of-saucers out to colorful pope’s bones, sleeping underground at Bluejay Way. oh how many holes does it take to fool the stars, flying through air with the greatest, frozen strawberries, blue street, roosters, comets squirted frozen by the cornet air pallatails by the milky way, honorary mayors of the galaxies, singing in the frozen queen’s voice Frankenstein and frozen cadavers coming alive. up-dancing at the chalistrades, upbobbing at the court of the vast serene Drake-o-matic, up crashing through the roof of frozen moon death.

A day in the park. by the quill-o-farms time for jumbo-lunches at swil-o-park, a soup of octopus tongues squawking secrets, all the secrets clues to the peacock ice cream and flaming lions jumping through harps.

Trapeze artists.

I believe we can see the future but it’s too disturbing so we don’t see it ahead of time. we see it as it happens a quarter of a minute from a piano. silky. she has sinned against the stars. doesn’t use her quills, her fallow cat’s groans. Or night farming.

dog-opera and wells-o-light.

They beep-their-horns. gunshot magic blue flutes. dream pistols. And to the moon this time. no more churly beasts with stripes aglowin’ with neon sherbet flavors. these animals are extinct in the dirt crust lake bottom in a volcanic hide-away under stars with their dying light soft-blue yellow light etching in the late night rooms. they wander-wonder in this melancholy ghost place Indians sitting for hours out in the dark yard just beyond earshot of dogs.

oh island by the sea by the gleamy reamy sea. burn your trash into gold balls. an army digs-a-trench for gold bones and comes rolling down cowboy moons, falling off hills into pools on the edge of a burning trailer, smoke by the drive, the cold stars, burning ranch, Indians on fire, horses jumping off edges-of-moon, plunging bone into canyons & man-made lakes damming up blue. the million-year mollusks flaming.

they are running through the blue streets shooting guns.

in the rain there’s nothing else to do for love. shoot-for-love. you can’t stand it. Every day the factories pump out grey melancholic, oil-stained trash yards of no-love, no longer for the bottom, no longer for the underneath where she wags wet underlands for you.

so they run and die in red bloody rain.

he looks at me with his bloody shirt and says move on, staring in blue windows at the auto parts, cans, bottles, metal go-for-Mars. he can, he can go he’s waiting to shoot in the street, move-on, blood ready shirt he’s ready to die now for it he’s tasted blood die for love no more love at the trash yards. the bearded angel.

the roar. and well. you know the rest: how it appears on the circus poster, for the benefit of Mr. Kite horse flying air, jumble tombersaults climb, the policeman’s ball, the goat. You know how it goes all the successful news about the hallucinogenic rooster, his membrane harps with jump-gold fleas. the wild chest, squirm-medusa at the pleasant bloody floor. Kitchen. it’s kitchen time at puppet theatre, make the kids dance and squirm out pleasnt hole, a town in lower new jersey right on the yellow towel and then I found it, the Saturn Motel. This was not the kind of place. It was right under the freeway. All night from your bed you could hear the trucks rumble overhead until you thought some of monkey angel. It was the last chance, the chill lobby, the pictures, the 3-D pictures of Christ crying, the tiny electric poodles crawling up your leg, barking cutely on the floor an electric cord up its butt-hole. The night manager was some kind of drugged Indian (he was looking at a picture of a Christmas tree when I came in—he was selecting an aluminum one from a catalogue), and he gave me the chills, the half-language eye. Asked me if I wanted gas (must have been his day job). There was something wiggling on the wall.

It looked like living chicken meat. I got the apex angel room, going in the frozen chill-from-space nuclear showers, a hole in the stall so you could watch day-and-night movies, pornography (silver) mixed with Doris day movies, kung-fu epics, the charge of the light brigade, a lot of Indian films and Greek films, passionate arguing on the pretty Greek isles and then another silver boon-moonkey, the hairless all and under grisly, the full twenty-eight tunes, blue cord on the wall and 27 twenty-sevens, my ankle busted oozing out black but it was all a dream in silver jumbo-lunch o-cycles. There was no leaving this place. They took your