An Uninterrupted Cyberdream Cried From the Eyes of an Always Dying Unprophet
On a quiet spring day, Sylvester Dannigan was minding his own business, walking down the road pleasantly, when a piano fell onto his head.  A cantaloupe squashed at the corner of the market, displaying its guts for all to see.  A red, sticky sweet puddle of cat piss drained onto the scene from another waterfall. Where trees reached the sky like pointy zombie fingers stroking the underbelly of heaven’s doorknob.  A neon pink Jesus statue danced on the graves of piano masters, stones like silky yellow statues on the bottom of the mind’s eyeball. Painted corpses filled sphincter brains with the words of countless novel drafts slipping away into the mindless altered states of space and beyond the black holes where fish speak in molten purple languages forced upon them by the junkyard piles of red wheelbarrows caught with their proverbial blue jeans down the drain with the pink butterflies and windy silver streets of hills and mountainsides and the toppled towers of spinach.  And here I find you with hawky hands curled in little spindly talons tickling the keyboard keys on the side of barnacled cruise ships in the dingy dungeons of underocean pickled race tracks gambling away your soul’s freedom to the static illness conveyor belt feeder toothless boneless skeletons drenched in the molten silver leaked from frozen windowpanes in the civil city of starving Glockenspiels.  I wish you would have left open the other windows.  Framed serpents dance suggestively with squirrely caterpillars and you couldn’t find the last written graffiti apple in the sundrenched graveyard of Eden, boiled over with pantherized sonic grasses and other types of remote controlled shellfish.  Bang the drum of the moon for the serpentine eyeballs of Thor.  Watch the lips of Aphrodite sing the blues like Bllie Holiday’s foreclosed timeshare in the green-eyed apple of waterfalls of antiquated telephones and lobsters and melting clock faces stroked with the luck of a million sullen junkyards and the famed sun of steam.  Waddling in the milk baths of structure.  Wallowing in the bloody puddles left by croaking drum kits. Screamed by the cricket legs of Judas. This is the end.  This is the beginning.  This is the pickle.  This is the sundried grape.
