THE DREAM CAFE (a singing prelude)

& now the rooftop Lullaby sings in the darkened cords of the insected-sky. What we have we will take w/ us; what we take w/ us will be lost to us forever. The insects are crawling upon my skin w/ the Itch of loss, the way the Moon's skin itches during Lunar eclipse. The way reverie itches the mind; nostalgic Beasts roar from the thinning clouds like Buffalo. Sparkling citedals house the scum of the earth below, & it is only that from which i gain memory.
In the dangling electric cords of the mourning, when memory is oft times at its Apex, the wooden walls of imagination bemoan w/ Crucifixtion's weakness; for weeks now, surrounded i have been w/ Lunar Lunacy & Solar Stigma - no waxing or waning for my combustible viens; no warming nor cooling of my becoming reptilian skin: things stay constant w/ only an illusion of change.
Imminent skull-fragmenting pressure is being released thru hot exhausting exhales of wild beasts - the Ash of ear-skin blown out into the shrinking Universe like sex.
All this, this elastic nightmare, is unfolding at a crucial Time, at a crucial bone-splintering speed. Luckily enuf, Bones by Nature break. i can hear them like a Moon's trumpet, cracking, wailing, splintering, exploding thru the walls of this cafe; from up out the floor upon which my feet nervously dance & twitter, these sounds vibrate. Inside the labrynth of each of these patron's movement Death resides - a residue, an adhesive, upon which is stuck the falsehood of living.
Thru such comotion, thru such noise, i sit; thru such comotion, thru such noise, if listened to closely, there lies a shadow of silence - a sliver of nothingness, or, nothingness as in a vestige of life past that exists no longer except in the folds of the brain, & before all this: the Writing, the Drinking, the Fornicating w/ thought - before the Writing in youthful play-time-whoo-yee-hawing is where i fall back to the pasty cracked alligator streets of my neighborhood child-trance Back to the skin of friends, that now, in retrospect, glistened the Opals of fabricated obscurity Back to the days where smiles broadend daily for the daily milk of the soul Before the Writing i go back to the boiling pots of storm's amazing grace-heated-rain Back to the time where angels were more real then haggard smoke-beaten reflections ahh.
& there are mirrored fractions of myself, stratigically or not, placed about the world. In every nook, every crack, in every easy chair, kitchen, cafe, in every plume of cigarette smoke, in every cathedral, in every action in a mindless fuck performed - in every city placed thru-out the world, there i am hiding, crouching, resting, cooking, Drinking coffee, smoking, praying to god to reveal to me the plasicity of his own fabrications, copulating w/ something i believe to be a woman, in every city thru-out i am dying & living at the same time thru an epochal grave-site where both that of flesh & rot are welcome, only they see not a difference of the thin space between shattered mirrors & broken flesh - Amaze! - the heart stopping breath of none stopping traffic which courses thru bleary-eyed lines of destitution.
& the electrocuted brain that hangs from the corridors of teeth - suspended in the sky w/ illuminated sun & moon reflecting the actions of poor woe-be-gone flesh, stripped & actioned toward the Abortion of Self, transplanted upon pages that can seeminglynever turn; pages upon which hearts exhume the transcription of nature; Today, among fossils whom puke noise - the shattering-glass-breaking noise of chattering, expecting teeth, wrapped in silent odor.
The clouds will pass in mimickry over the epeleptic sky, its grounds shake malignant corsets thru the rivers of breaking bones, setting in motion, the volotile movements of calenders in motion. Days passw/ reason, reasoning out the insignificant. Fingers are bleeding. Mind wheeling, pulling existance taut.
The city's stifling heat produces the garbage of mind & the garbage of mind, strewn & littered across a diminishing horizon, is the uplift of upheaval.
It is this city, this very city, where buildings stand tall only by the upside-down-thought-upright reflective universal siezuring sky - all so crazy such things are - the clown faces of clouds, the majestic Ringmasters whose hats tilt on the head of the axis of the earth like crazy bugged-out nightmares revealing themselves in the Sun's glare, whilst Van Goghe's ear skitters toward a shelter of shadow that resides deep in the heart of secret passions.
& all that sadness you can't get away from like the dead - fish love of america - all that road going all the time - swooping & diving, curving like the spine-back of a crazy old woman; the page is long, like these days have become long like the equation of the tired distance between finding Mortality & accepting it - a worrisome difference.
It is getting late, & w/ this comes the stretching of the page, the Writer's incurrable disease: a cancer set in the colon of the mind - an attempt to find a finish in all things w/in the impossible void of nothing's eternity.