To Kerouac, Tennessee Williams, Cassady, Whitman, Burroughs, Gilman and all others who kept ideal company in hours of theist crises. To all those too who supplied with substance from outside and helped hallucinate. You all may relax now in your Elysian fields while I move on cautiously with "starry dynamoes" clutched under my belt.
My God is comatose
He is castrated, fuzzy, pig nosed electric
Dance, dance, dance blind bouncing bosom bella
Necrophile! Yours is long decaying
Unzip him, meat will stick along
Take a 'shroom dose and run wild wind fanny catcher
Sick Layale with caramel and wooden balls (for eyes) hehe...
Do a C.P.R, or Kabbalah or bypass
Do something you fidel faithful fidaieen!
Fornicating with faith vibrators in a nice little room
I licked him off Bison dung
You tied a bead collar round his neck
Had to die, poor confounded beast!
I counted him off those teeth i touched
And every bead of sputum exchanged
Yours locked in dusty glass frames up
Mine squirming easy on the road
That is how I think they collide
I think where I am not
They rolled in glory puffed one each, in Bratislava cold
Yours died of cold lungs, frigid head
Mine, the peg kept Haddock going.
So, still comatose. En ventilation.
Well vegetating, with mayo and mustard sauce.