Twelve Pianos Sleeping in Catacombs of Silence

her toes are webbed like spider's roses,

 

 cadillacs that bring her to the depths of the void within the pyromaniac's pomengranite, 

 

 

a parade of paradox, every purple heart tripping phosphorous filigree and the insane

 

 

biometric alghorithms of God seeking God in everything that is not God,

 

the human body like an apple or pearl burning in whorls of  prophecy and the 

 

Secret Life of Machines made of Nothing but Subatomic Sermons,  electrons and photons and neutrons

 

assembling strange extraterrestrial laughter in the place where the rainbow buries a diamond 

 

in the vagabonds eye, by the 

 

 

warehouse tattooed with an Image and Thought of the Graffiti that Burns like a Fire of Madmen

 

gathering pearls of human attention, there:  where the Pantheon has gathered it's legends, 

 

 

faceless acolytes  chanting sing songs of  Sunshine to the Ghost of the troubador Demigod

 

that is nursing her wounds by the exit wound disguised as an ordinary door.

 

 

The floor is like a mannequin's faceL  smeared with white purple confetti, the rouge of repulsion,  eyeshadow of troglodytes 

 

boiling in exotic nightmares and  daydreams that pirouette in an anarchists ballet of endless suffering and the 

 

darkness of love, the eye that sees inside, 

 

 

until a  crowd of perfect strangers assembles to hear of the Story, an   autopoetic recognition of mythologies,

 

 

saying  something  happened, this moment arrived in a fractalline exposition of that that We Know,  an exclaimation point  burst 

 

 

through the edge of the unknowable world, 

 

 

and the Dream inside the Dream, nested synergies of Questions and Answers convected 

 

 

in scalar fantasias,  trillions of pianos began swimming through the  catacombs where the Sybil is turning a  page of 

 

 

Blueness in the Anomalous Anonymity, over and over into flocked flights, Schools of Fish that Twitch into neurons and 

 

 

curves of the Moebius,  leminscates of noumenon looming in the wisdom of the bewitched evolution 

 

of a Nine Faced Juniper W***e. 

 

 

*

 

 

A sudden rendition of exquisite  dissonance, the purse of Gods' ear  lit with tangled 

 

 

sequences of sequins, like the toeprints of the Schizoid  Ballerina Nijinksky,

 

 

whose ghost slept in the oak 

 

 

against the gravity of Tunguska, the Rosicrucian furies that gave birth 

 

 

to a freckle eating fairy on it's way to the Beginning of Time. 

 

 

She:  who Carries the World in her Belly : around the Castle of Spirals, 

 

 

Starlit Wine, where Vainamoinen assembles a wild series of tangled sticks and leaves, branches of the night 

 

 

turning over in majestic silences where follow the infinities into infinities 

 

as if the heart was a soul gathering door. 

Reviews

[Robin]

bored Gods with the goods , ... the dance of perception - the twist ( nod of appreciation for Nijinksky ) , myth and the circle of fifths , and if a tree fell on a piano in Siberia - could they blame Tesla ?

[Hawkmoon]

hahaha Tunguska Redux.