Exploding Head Syndrome

betelgeuse the destroyer, maker of makers, we've got our eye on thee

at the shoulder of orion

a semiregular supergiant supernova

pointing its rotational axis, destined to irradiate its neighbors

the fish rots at the head

elect the unelectable

before the devil knows you're dead.

eddie from vargas toils the bell well

the multitudes too many

to tell hell from hell

the visceral dreamscape bespeckled by allegory

the ramrod mechanism of bureaucratic automatic

the silent heatwave of a forgotten story

post mannequin byproduct technology

there are too many captains on board this ship...

one or more will need to be thrown over the side.

preserve the herd

kill the metaphysical tiger

in absentia

reborn back to the past

can you imitate the brilliance and magic

decry what is obtained

mourn what is lost

steeling thyself for the remainder of bitter technology

there were no futures in our collective neon nightmares

only the cold embrace of leftover astronauts left to brittle native yesteryears

even the remnants of infinite progress crept to inevitable demise

in monotone numerology.

and so the fallopian harvest would forever not unwind

and we calculate technoserendipity

one more time

lucious starkiller and the gaping head wound

of the miasmic plastopia emerged the dustiest veil of god.
the single pinprick of conciousness and revolt. the light that bears no witness.
looking back at itself in recognition.
cognizant of its misunderstanding.















mathematical illumination th3 microsope that reduces awareness to unending.
the cosmos rife with passage.

like a balloon ribbon throught the outstretched hand, the gentle tug and harmony of decay.
the astronaut fondling of the naked ape penetrating his icy glare.

they operate to pick his pieces from the floor. no gargantuan dream shall this clever witch defy thine master.

we found more pieces out back by the blasted slab of concrete otherwise known as odessa's farm.
he used to dress in the garb of white lightning.

sleep away the little slices of death

the barking of the pagan yard ape. the roil of the starscape.

the sprinkling onanist zombiefying emptiness like pragmatic braying monkeymen capsizing their seed upon irresolute earth.













sweep the starstreets lined with cosmic dust.
















we explode seismically on top of one another. the orgasmic throes of death watch perpetuated in outside observatories.
















come select that which belongs to the innermost secrets of our ancestors.

mannequin by-product technology

the fortitude of our indifference to the celestial dreamscape haunts our nightmares continuously. the creator's grand romantic gesture was to give pain and suffering to hic creations. you're welcome.
















they retaliate by blasting themselves into the universe membrane.

the pressures inherent to deep space travel blew our minds.















mitochondrial abduction of the vain and vaccuous. he rejects them all.



















he rejects them all.

but keep the balast unwound to the stars, just in case.

your interstellar post-coital silence is deafening

and then the walls of sleep were awakened by the last thrust parabula to which we had peered through sunken eyes at the great magnitude. if there had been just one person in the in the entire system to have foreseen the careening cataclysm it would probably have been that limp-wristed physicyst from berkeley.

but alas, the great ending of our time catalogue in forseight by this f'n guy, pictued, his bald dome conspicuously ablaze in the noon sun.

the imprint of destiny mirrored in a celestial partner.

such a thing had already been chronicled through the ages. the ignorance echoes across millenium. we scribed nothing in response.