I am the elephant man with oranges down my spine. A pyramid between my shoulder blades, crouching through a keyhole. I am received dyslexic, son of Joseph. Ladies with no flesh hold fish. Triangles with eyes floating above my head. This maze is made of summer. It melts my bones until visions of a Minotaur devour me completely. With bare hands, they cultivate plants. They caress stalks to teach new meaning. Barrels of wine. Distilled through transcendence. Heat from pulsating orbs. Glowing membranes dancing on the brink of dawn. Leaves of gold. Five left as the wind picks up and scatters all remaining thoughts. Smiling fox. Nose buried deep in the bush. Owl looking down. No sense in sense when the ticking of your clock clicks thinner each day. Butterflies and skulls. Like a worm on a hook. Like a cat in a bag. Navigate me. Mother of dogs. Norma Jean. Bleached skin revived through paper cuts. Only a god. Only an icon of passive desire. Forbidden fruit like luscious apples smoothed on tender thighs. Reddened and spreading. The notion of loneliness, fluttering like wings in the suburbs. Homes of dreams. Gardens as weeds. Like snakes, they slither until the coming of a pink moon makes itself known.
Rejoicing in the name of love. Slipping out of time as if it were only a matter of space. Folding layers of light, wrapped around skinny fingers. Generations of dead, praising everything that serves no purpose. Holes in the earth. Holes in brainwashed heads. Bullets for cheap valentines begging to be found once more. There used to be a lighthouse. It saved the lost as they struggled through the storm. But it was only a mirage. An abstraction of what was once real. Raised hands and animal hearts. Blinding Truth. The kind that saves when all is ready to be lost. Swaying back and forth. Losing your sense of self in a labyrinth of doubt and confusion. Trees and hunters. Reapers of the faith. Divided by the ninth sun, we are sterilized by the deaths of a hundred elephants. Chained to images no longer relevant, we feel numb and without cause. Falling down a cliff face, the rocks of teenage bloodlust race head first into oblivion. Open mouthed. Singing songs with no words we crawl towards a doorway made of wind chimes. The sweet tones of enlightenment. The stunning realization of finding all the answers. Through thick and thin we dance without knowing. Silence on her belly. Birdsong on her breasts. All webs of connection, shimmering like oranges beneath a sky that never speaks.