sundra vs chandra ------ poems that ain't poetry, prose that ain't prose = RANT

sundra vs chandra; the power of plasma (luminosity needs darkness in order to be perceived)

was that you earlier? or the voices from the basement? i feed them smoldering brimstone, or they won't shut up. it's like a gravely mur mur, something between chant and drone, surreal liturgy, that, or angelic females amid choral beatitude, with one misfitted strain, a shrill that forces dancing shivers down the spines of virgins, then abruptly goes into a monotone flat-line repetitive scale of three tone-deaf notes missing a sense of life that reminds me of when you were happy with something, like your art, or your conversations with strangers that ambled into my store that you drearily haunted. there have been reports of sandre' sightings on the cold concrete stoop, talking to the old leather-man about the massive crowd at woodstock burning while jimi hendrix masturbated his big onyx cutlass on top of the ancient pietistical dais of weathered driftwood adorned with mosaics of animal sacrifices made from wine bottle seaglass and the crystal molluscan shells, the book of mary below him, opened to the passage about the ark sinking into the sea of vague scripture-dusk that swallowed the sun and spit out the moon; his feet bloodies by the quill, his blood poisoned by the black ink of plague splotches that speak in tongues and lash graffiti on the sterile white walls of the greatest of all institution concerts, innocent animals, splashing, drowning, their limbs and tails flailing, their torsos writhing, they're gasping for the precious air liberty and life ever take for granted, they disappear one by one into dark punishment, paying for the sin of innocence, living the retribution of agony, eventually their tired muscles weaken into jelled limpness as death forgives them. every reported sighting is history disturbed. what else is to become of ruins? all promises are ferry tale fables, you're still alive, working from the beginning of the days end 'til the end of night's life, porn to report, forgotten pipes blown, cannibalistic braincells licking each other's tears during the marriages of sanctity and lies manifested in secreted sojourns, invisible clouds, ill-breath, sorrel horses shaded deeply, stampeding, orgiastic strands of DNA warring to the fuck of the ultimate end, dollar by dollar you count the needs of pasty faced strangers with perfectly sunken eyes and hearts, dreams dashed on the breaker rocks, passionate desires lost to the mechanics of banality, the thrumming of dull gears. i can almost see the sardonic simper form on your lush lips, glimpse the vibrations of a truncated blurt of a sarcasm jabbed into the freshly self inflicted laceration of the coition deprived smut victim, read the mind of your eye's crackling burn, hear the echos of an auditorium of lunatic cackling, yet i can just as easily witness the sorrow that mopes listlessly, slightly so, just above the spans of floor that beckon the tenderness of your naked feet, the rawness of your travels, the vehicles of purity chafed by your birth, the yearn to torture the rhythm of step, the future and past, woodgrains of sliver spikes, thick stray fiber needles of maltreated timber, like the fur of an angry cat standing in rows of thicket pricks waiting to penetrate your flesh, each lance a memory, a mal-occurrence relived, a mauling of your peace, a piece of bitter forbade, dead figs, rotten boysenberries, the venom of snakes, toxic toad spittle, the buried heart of your guiding angel, the prison you keep your souls in, a sacred locked gate thrust wide open, the intrusion, the violation of the last known virtue, the exhuming of a loved one, the stench of offal strewn onto a barbed wire fence in the aridity of a vicious sun, the caesarean slice, the excising of a suppressed stillborn corpse, infected, dripping in afterbirth, pus, hema-gore, the bursting of the filmy mephitic membrane body bag, sullen vulnerability unmasked by means of violently ripping the flesh of your real face off the head of your living body, exposing each nerve separately with the undivided attention of savage sadism, thrashing the very core of your delicate essence, the higher self attained by means of extreme pleasure, the plateau of indulgence reserved for masters alone, divine bliss, sheer decadence, all that which you deserve served to you bite by bite because you are created in the image of god, because god is created in the image of you, because all that is wrong is right for those of higher stature, because the laws of love are written by voracious lovers alone, because within poverty lies gluttony on a gilded sable carpet, on marble tiles with silver grout, in elysian croplands farmed by armies of faithful servants, in solar fields of opium firmament. such astral beauty is always verdant in the ethereal regions known only to the chosen stars---perfection knows one rival: reflection.