Not Woman (Man) A vigorous psychology is as a delicate chamber. exaltations can be as simulated skin, no similarities though to my embryonic archfiend of neuralgic movements. I squealed into being, giving to the Goddess songs for a contemptible God. Each golden chasm resembles that neuralgic ecstasy, bearing countless esthetics easily poured for the many fish. My prolific projectile professes my animalism, it adores in lumped stupor many postulations upon the culinary feasts. Groomed and taught as being procured from a singular observed addiction; I eclipse, captiously throwing to this art crafty fluffs of wanton gifts from my undies. I ache for the single archaic, well witted woman. This season has disrobed desperation, nothing, novelties only. Imagine rummaging through Christs' suitcase finding leagues of neuralgic self sucking manure from early dreams.

Peace Patch Mixed match --- pocket patch, what are you going to do with the door latch? Frozen lemon --- cold women, what are you ging to do about all the killing? Must be frantic -- I am manic. Are we destined to these militant antics? Fantacised militancy -- painted lunacy, and they call it bureaucracy. Better bureaucracies -- frameless aristocracies, and they call it the enevitable society. Society is blind --- so is mankind. The poor and homeless are great and devine. Nothing matched --- everything patched, who is going to strike the first match? Frozen fire --- suspends womens desire, preserve the future of all the liars. Saint and priest --- negatives cease, let us travel upon the path of true peace.

June 2001 Christ Himself Pass the point of recognition, beyond reverent recall, pass memories institution, longings of the soul come forth, A distillation of convenience. Hide the multitudes heart. As promises befell my pardon, I lapse into the catacombs of timeless existence. The fragrant pastures of tomorrow laced with seasoned dreams Forgotten improbability, recognitions fade like sands upon the shores of despair. it behooves me quite so gentle to be a child within the soul of some forgotten passage; Where forlorned adventures roar. A catalist of maniac persuasion I exhibit signs of disbelief. Beneath the sanctuary of forever I seldom find release. A nocturnal mercenary of forgetfulness my sedative is life itself. My veins pulsate with deliverance, I might be Christ himself.