My fury releases the streets full of ostriches.

Big-boned black wings, batting the shit out of street kings
Big-boned black wings, batting the shit out of street kings
Big-boned black wings, batting the shit out of street kings

Circle of stars…
Gang members, crawling like turtles through tar
and the cobblestone roads crack like geodes.

Let’s talk about the weather…
and the serpent, who let itself go to the wind
and it’s scales which have turned into feathers.

The clouds are now lines
Chemical spines
Checkerboards cover the skies.

Aztec gods hide behind it!
Alien bloodlines are blinded by violence!

My fury unleashes a deafening silence, only to be heard by birds.

Nightly news will repeat the report
how a setup man just got caught with a bottle of hot sauce…
What?!? God nods off?
Jihadists will topple New York with one pop of the cork
Ted Kopple puts lock on his modest resort
They start chopping off wings to all ostrich and stork,
fanning the flames of these stories of hostages, caught.

AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL WILL PROBOBLY SWALLOW HER FORK
WHEN WE SPACKLE HER POCK-MARKED CORPSE WITH A POCKET OF PORK.

Each individual tooth is like loose leaf. Mouth opens, exhale, melt manhattan.
Who cares for New York when the gap between the rich and the poor is so massive
Each incoming mayor must staple this void with parking tickets and page six cutouts.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

Tonight these hands shall throw up everything my head has been hiding
In the last month the news has squeezed glue into my thought to make stories stick
Instead, they are making me sick.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

Tonight these hands shall pluck each grain of sand off of the surface of earth,
ingesting each one until I am rock solid. From here on, all hope is lost…
Thats a good thing. Hope is pretentious. There is so much pressure on hope…
Our intentions become necessity for survival.

All of this red ink becomes spilled blood and we have corrections to make.
The only thing statuesque about me is my marble mouth. That is why I need this pen.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

All shaky as if two seperate individuals clasped onto my forearms…

Crying coconuts.

Fat-footed Ella squashes Max Roachs’ eardrum
Bleeting goat
Crest of the ocean
Sea of cream
Orange wedge moon.
Fat-footed Ella keeps flirting with crushed rock
No longer contemplates
and god staples her exoskeleton with fish fins, fish scales and fish tales.

A walking collage from god
A walking museum for when Mercury breathed in the atom bomb.
A deep sea explosion…
We go around gathering anything golden.
-Right from your earlobes, melted down, molten…

We’re going to start worshiping calves.

Fat-footed Ella-phant
Stomping on Max Roach-Flat!
Tiger pelt off of the coat rack…
Shell of an animal doing a dance
The kings house of cards is in ruins, an avalanche
Queen bats an eye which is more like a battering ram
and this glittering quicksand is AAMMAARRAANNTTHH.

Condition the water
Condition the fish in the stream
I’m kissing, caressing the gleam
Caress the reflection of something unseen
Reject any introspect
Sex… We make love to machines.

…Maybe it’s Maybeleine…
Maybe a saber-toothed lazer beam
Slices of vaginal lips, nips the clitoris
Spaying the nation of Africa, anyway, save the queen.
Ivory sea, jade green sky
In the blink of an eye
Of the man in machine
Who still stands behind something unseen.

…Maybe a dream…
Label me crazy, just play with my Venus
Your hands become butterflies, tied to the ocean
Your navel breeds scarabs, come lay in between us.

Africa starves under the sirius star…
In America, underneath Venus’ blue light,
overweight kids have a food fight- get your ponchos.

Our tables are troughs and our rivers are compost
open our borders and free trade will smell like cilantro.

I roam Coney Island.
Scraping the killing floor,
Spilling more blood than religion- our government!
Ron English Mcdonald rainbows- I’m loving it!

Right in the middle of summer, it’s famine
weather so hot we can’t even imagine
these midieval times, it’s like breathing in dragons…

So… modern day Eden
has oil the powers that be say that we should believe in.

Africa doesn’t have that much oil.
Their system’s alligned with Cecil Rhodes’ gold mine.

I roam Coney Island
I wash down the blood.

Right in the middle of summer it’s
Pyrotechnic python slithering the stars in the sky
On the fourth of July- it’s important for national pride.

It all coincides with a nation of Freemasons keeping their hand on the dial…

While the rest of the world gets starvation and bombthreats
We get the Nathans hot dog eating contest.

Inside I feel sick
I feel like I won.
Get down the hot dog
Get down the bun.
Get down the hot dog
Get down the bun.

Don’t throw up until you’re the champion!

Then, open your throat for Ethiopia…
We’re like junkies in search of the opium.

I roam Coney Island under the shadows of 6 digit hirises, yet to be built.
While the nation is cheering the downfall of man, I am nauseous and bridled with guilt.

Darkened streets from the heights of these buildings…
Trying to make sense of it all while they kill them, these third world children.

We walk up to the contestants table and Corey Chestnut is a mother robin,
gobbling up all of that food…

His digestive enzymes are breaking it down.

Come here, kids. Open your mouths…

We will solve third world hunger- one way or another.