birds are not real

READ THE COLORS IN REVERSE

all the milk fell down upon us! it is never like this, i think. i think and i distribute my gifts. i laud the mind with its establisments. i bewail eagerly. clarion call. seductive agent. musspelheim of wonder why. i think i might be wrong. succulent apostasies. but what about them? what are you going on about, uncle joe? walking down the mind-weaving street, all choirous, all shipments unfolded and star-like brains trickling down your neck and eyes of marrow looking within you. it is an identity of moisture. it doesn’t know summers. i stop at the milky door where milky-bars are bought and sold. a building like amnesia of spinal cords, now wondering how to enter it. but hey, i’ve got a key. now opening the door, opening into a blinding light of milky-bars and chewing similies. hello there, would you like a milky-bar? someone asks. but, oh, yes, sure. i don’t know why i said that. do i really know what a milky-bar is?! perhaps i’ll find out! there’s a being in shape of a man but seeming to forget this occasionally. i stop and stumble. i see a milky-bar, a wonderful milky-bar, all waiting for me to take it, on such a fine day. no, sir, you cannot. unfortunately. we will have to fine you, the being said. i sink down to the floor. the building starts to crack. i am in hell.

my octopus-mind, my soothing dream, my beautiful planet-skin, noise and hemorrhage, noise and blood and teeth and augurs, tigers reading wonders in reverse, eyes glued to the revelry of a glowing night, immune and removed ochre-stance, whiplash, Sudan, streets and voices, my own catastrophe in disguise, sharing and never seeing all blind and mesh pervasively drunk and atomless, atoms becoming soil, soil becoming color, color becoming math and math becoming faster-than-light brains and roadless, pathless songs towards dismemberment of limits and dining rooms and dancing halls and bracelets and whiskers and hoo-hoo-hoo and la-la-la. i remain seen. formless give me form give me speed give me all of that my speed-of-brain light lightless and formless and irisless and human disguised as black torpor and serenity like a small planet too small to be a garden but a planet with all the installed software, all the free software and all the hidden protocols and hidden kernel configurations. look towards the small planets so the night never becomes as iron and night like spring night. such girth of trouble. i am disguised as lonesome. i am a thief of hidden codes and wikipedia pages and ghastly seas and oceans of two point five and threes and six measured emptiness driven through your skull in coded circles. circles in fact do not know algebra as we know it but they use orthogonal time-space and they can see it and they can teach it to you if you ask and you can learn all about it and write a book about it and if you walk up to a tree and poke and see into it it will say the same thing to you and it will tell you all about the hidden wikipedia pages and linux installations in reverse if that’s what you want to know. there’s everything in there if you just look and ask and perhaps sing a song about it, a song about Jesus’ suffering and resurrection because Jesus wanted to tell you the same thing, all about the protocols and free software and light-speed brains in orthogonal and transliminal and what-not. it all should be in there if you keep looking hard enough. if you really keep looking you can see Jesus on Mars as a first settler, waiting for those of us who are willing to go and ask and plant trees with him, invisible trees at first, but those are of the mind, for the garden to reveal itself, in a trash can, perhaps? if you keep looking hard enough, you will see a ladder towards Mars and Jesus and Qumran desert where everything happens at once and linear time shakes violently so you don’t notice it anymore. He doesn’t notice linear time at all and the concept is foreign to Him and you should stop noticing it too since it’s not really fun at all and it rather depresses me. well then, Earth and Mars are really the same, they exist in laminated layers and they’re all interconnected and when you walk you might be walking on a Mars layer, perhaps, only that you notice all the unnecessary things, things you don’t really need, and what you do is peel back the accretioned layers by walking up to a tree and asking it some questions about reality and how exactly you got here. it works every time. you can ask a mushroom, too, or anything that thinks in eight basic colors, or eight basic circles. it means a new kind of communication. take courage. i am a star-thief, a child, i am pregnant and i carry my insides in my hands and mouth so i can’t really talk. they all went away and they’re waiting for me, i think? to tell me something i know but don’t realize. but they’re somewhere where everything happens at once, all the creation and drug-addled nights, at once. wounds and forms. all the resurrections. a glass-forming nightmare. go. let them be more than light, let them be lovers. lovers, lovers. it is okay to be lost. can i comprehend? a wonderful body, a magical body of unknown colors and with children’s drawings all over it… a body of Eden. flowers growing-splattered onto your mind in rhizomes. trees, trees! with milky-white veins!

drink the night in reverse, bombshell, morning-ice, steam-hot, masking irreversibilities, noon-tide giants hopping across the room, so secret, so vitally scented, so musically clawing through the reeds of flattened minds. this thing is obscure and devour; i sense a-hidden. fater noster. examine the watch, come unto me naked, brains soaked in star-gazing and calculations of the unseen. let me feel the unfelt, the universal. bring me the yellow hues with smudged edges and let us prepare ourselves a meal out of them. such a wonder. each morning i hear a cry. somewhere in the woods. too much to comprehend, but who does it? trees smell like unicorns. go on and hug them. so snuggly. but then: sadness. overpowering. they feel it too. they are its catalysts. no, it’s you now, you are a tree’s brainshell, your senses all warm and squiggly. moist brain. forest: nerves and veins. colors like silky flowers, or an alien thought put to canvas. let them dream on your lap for a second. tell me, tell me another one of those. i walk the land in search of quivering truth so i could replace my aching heart with it. but i find a puzzle to eat. such merriment of spirit. how does one go from one place to another? he writes himself an equation to fill in the gaps in the map of his soul. it doesn’t fit. the equation becomes alive and deserts its original purpose. it was never meant to be a piece of that which is rational. it surpasses the accretioned layers of low vitality. now my head grows itself another mind to cherish. i ask a tree which is it. i ask a tree. then i ask a god. are you god? i am good. it thanks me. a cherub. one of those with four heads. when should you marry me? he asks. i ponder this. i think i would like to marry a cherub. nothing can go wrong with that, i think. it’s a certain sense of stability, of vitality. i shouldn’t worry about anything. i can do this. but i can’t leave the forest. yes, right, you can’t do that, the cherub says. now you will live here with me. that’s perfectly okay, i say. is this somewhere near saturn? i ask him. reverberates across the moons. the night is patient with me. but the sun is up and doing its best to heal my seared psyche. it was too much talking to the cherub. i wonder when it will be now. now or today. i feed him some grass, some mushrooms. he looks so dreamy. so respectful. i’m a married man now, i think. what should i feed you next? perhaps some of my drug-induced mania? he says that it’s his favorite. but he will not give me the drugs. something exists beside the meanings of the words. it exists. a child. i am so young, the cherub says. younger than physics. i will never grow. but you are a growing chrysalis. i will take you to all the moons, so there are no more earthbound thoughts in your head. and he did. and i never knew where the trees were.

ringing in my head oh furnish or licking hand. psychedelic: stallions of the unarmored brainwaves. in the red distance i see them hooking onto serpentships, the crushing dippings onto crystalshores enabling meadows of arcanesleeps next to me, yellow instant-phase i trust here in and out to be. touching, breathing, word. pieces of me now dens to thinking firs, soundless plants, soundfilled plates, featherly atrophy. don’t call soul on agony, everything in quadrants alone, cubes in shapes intermittently black and jumping out of accustomed spaces just to see… tenderless throats, burglars of open codes, of limitless crates, i the night, the yellow beacon: now fostering, now just one. attention and misunderstanding fusing into oceans of bonemarrow, of lispticky nerves and bellowing cones in place of a pure epileptic seizure. please resist, encouraged, ate the wrong one, frog one, noise-tame, hexagon-name. all in me or before. my eyes are jimsonweeds. try me. hold your head steady because i mymble of the white molygons. ha-ha-ha at yah! woooo woooo oohhh. riding on the backs of my galaxies with my chest splayed open: syntaxis of the unseen magdaloo.

pictures of elephants and words and numbers all alike and small. grieving. pencils crying out of the letterbox - letters all apart, all dribbling with courtesy of promises to never bother you again, to never imprint their likeness onto your brain-structure again. and there they come in vast globular settings, like milk. milky lions coursing through your synapses, their flesh and blood of the most rectangular sort, like redness itself. redness dripping with mountains where the dolphin-kings live. boxed interior getting too much ahead of itself - becoming a quail’s kiss. a magical, eyeless being is now formed on your brow. it is shaped as a cedar-stone, a willow-moon, a killer bee. what is it that belongs to you? not your limbs, not your brain. they float along and you make peace with it and what is born of it: more and more limbs and brains following you: you’re an entire solar system now, and solar system are required to pay taxes. someone is waiting for you, hidden under a red cloak, their mumbling hello and handshake as real and as beautiful as the most luminous star death. what they show you is that which is further and further into nothing as you came to know it recently. perhaps you should shake their hand again. you are meeting the exact same copies of them along your multiple stops, and then you don’t notice when it’s not the same anymore. there is nothing more horrifying than birth.

a catatox of planes inverted fawn-skin-like, a tool of buddha-murder but with less engramming, a digit far into the processing power of prophet-mind: it spills and ruptures and splits and howls out of the swollen pages, its bursting laughter that no number, no silence can articulate. the pages of that most secret and wonderful book become an enactment of schizophrenic process governing every flower-growth, an oneiric process where you’re crucified in your sleep and you laugh and giggle and meditate in a ludicrous manner. this is the kind of a dream that buddhas far beyond this world see, buddhas who rummage through trash day after day and whose brains are stale with alcohol and their wits mummified. additionally.