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Preening madonnas catapult themselves through streets of mind,
in purple pumps, flashing gold fireworks sidewalk wide.
S’not exactly right, that they’re here;
but we’ll let them bounce around until my head falls off,
just ‘til then.

They’re prophetic prostitutes, these nightwatchmen, frogs in disguise.
Fluorescent-tinted eyesores and pineapple-tainted breath
equal pressure on the brain.
I hurt. I fly. Can’t see any way out.

But the beavers hunger; they need less focus to urinate.
If they didn’t, and did focus, were able to;
they’d gnaw off their own buckteeth.
For they can’t see the wood right in front of them.

They’re not drifting on stacks as they should be,
or even floating by on backs of tortoises.
They’re swept up in torrents of moonshine,
squealing all the way.

Ouch. It hurts to have brain so wide and swollen,
to take murky, bloody steps through swamps of cortex,
one wet boot clomp at a time.

I taste blood.
Where from? The mirror reports none. I checked (chickened out).
Is it from the inside I taste?

The guffaw of nightwatchmen echoes through mindchambers,
warning of impending bliss.
Explosions loom overhead, pressing down on consciousness.

Sloppy red blood stains fat lips.
Lips of mouth sealed shut
by black ropey stitches.
Dried brown blood,
thick saliva oozes through cracks
with words unspeakable.

Fingers tapper out letters,
trying to make hand twitches legible,
readable to seizuring minds.
Attempts at communication
stress the stitch, pull fat lips into threads
that slice deep wounds,
as a cheese grater takes to a block of cheddar.

Grace screeches by on the taut wings
of a pterodactyl-sized bat.
Steroids. Eager. Pleasure.

Heat in the pussy, fire in there. Very hot, searing the mound, lips,
delicate inner fleshiness. Wet nubs do not assuage, but feel
to the flame like alcohol. Holes burnt into sexuality and innocence.
Secondary, really.

Dreams begin awake, scenes from an autopsy film on autoplay
flash characters I have not known, having conversations
I must eavesdrop on with superb attentiveness to make out.

Pressure on the brain. It hurts. Fluid flowing not too much, but
too much in there blowing up like a balloon.
Organs twitch with malicious tingling. Is this death?
Or just mania. Take your pick. (You choose, I’m not.)

Photograph by Bennett Raglin 
www.brphotocreations.com 
Featuring model Walter Hurley
Shot at Alchemical Studios, NYC

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