On a South African elephant trail, I spy a sunset safari and a sailing gazelle in the sand, it has dark chocolate eyes that are barely alive, it's guts torn and pulled like a knotted and tangled anchor rope, the shipyards are alone and quiescent, majestic towers and machine-gun turrets, disarming flies, broken goblets of precious clay, oily pastels and butterflies, hollowed burned out tanks at the bay. It lays there in a slick velvet heap, thick red gluts and deeply ebony matted texture, white foam from the mouth, the last vapors of a starless dream. There are wind orchids all fucked and askew, heroin jungles and petrol bombs unexploded. Fragments of angry ghosts caught in the razor-wire, a flat canopy pock marked with cobra blood, I feel its remote sadness, the unbearable darkness shroud, the entombed casks and aged barrels of cognac, an adolescent onyx soldier equally gut shot and breathing in heavy leaden gasps, his wild cricket eyes terrified and drifting like clouds.
Stark, raving, madness and trumpets blaring, I can feel death and happiness, the enslaved rain gardens and dry leaves, howling streets and empty book coffins, abandoned buildings, bombed automobiles and sparks from a traffic robot. Knavish voyeurs, blue panties and the ghastly pierced blots of pumice. I feel ballistic, a writing fuck miracle chased by swarms of bullet-head niggers, shotgun hole in my heart, frozen stems of brisk violets, packs of newport, orange beret. With unfolded smooth arms, a luxurious; curious ocean and portraits of sliding glass rails, robotic ashes in the snow, Egyptian cotton, dove-less wings and stormy coal-tablets, escaping animals, my unhappy and verily meshing subtle forest of lash and hot sticky balm, inky eyelids and rare untouched iris of shining eyes.
