Her Time Machine

She said she's got a time machine called sui generis.
The Lazarus mode of administrative thought.  
The light is a prepubescent moth,
     young and willing.  Which like me, i really don't give a fuck about.
She's in my head,
      a supreme muse,
           nymph mode,
i hit the sheets and stay under the  
         waves where the water can't hear me with a
pan maker between my legs.
 I hear the sound of motion,
 that steady and quivering child in my mentality
 brutalized and talking incessantly
 like a coffin rock,
like the streets of L.A.  
    Give me a reason to write again.
A creaky ladder in front of a lavender lying sky slams
       down and she shows her rubic cubed shaped
 mouth, full of dope casper and
      whimpering poltergeists. I wished her away.  And then i wished to be beautiful.
 How wise was that?
 now im back on Mars stuck under some
goathead's darkness.