UNDERCULTURE

This is lovely person is Vanessa. She has known me for the longest time. In fact, she knows so much about me, I will have to kill her soon.

Gather ’round for the making of the Hedgehog,
the beginning of the tale.”
Approach, feast upon rapid fasts and then think,
think,
think…
Think of elastic plastics and monochromatic,
(sometimes automatic)
pricks
The Oral traditions no longer count
(Dracula)
We are one, we who have friends in water-filled voids
of nausea-blue waves where claustrophobic fishes
encapsulate your fruits.
They, too, know of the Albatross.

The fish audience enters the hall.
It is the first step in the watching.
The beginning of the Umbulis.
We play, then, with their eyes
when we absorb rivers in the speeches of trees.
(Ritualized Anathematis)
We call, nowhere, the embryo’s navel
to gain, to achieve all.
The Hedgehog remains passionate, though,
in spite of the brush and the violent verses.
He knows of her flesh and, as always,
reads a future in her breath.

Now onto the somewhat bizarre as we enter
the insulation of installations.
(Punctuation Emotion Repetition) Do we have the key?
Do we have the text?
Do we dare to be correct, my salty friend?
Here, amidst kitchen appliances,
dialectical hermeneutics become naught
but simple onomatopoeic pneumatics.
These achieve the Hedgehog’s manifold purposes:
to unlock the lizard’s Ss and buzzards’ Ss,
who feast upon the paranoidicly secure rocks
with fancy ties.

Jesus and the Hedgehog sat up one day.
(A while to stand)
They played chess and Jesus lost.
The Hedgehog too, but then they left.
We saw them leave and, now,
Observe!
He attempts to receive the Stigmata
but is instead blighted with fourteen candles.
This with brilliant eyes.
Damn! Black Home where are you?
His wheelchair is empty as she dances on the water,
and we are devoid of the voids so full
of clamoring ships…

Fifteen whores: split, spit and cut.
Butcher’s knife explosions in a mirror.
Did you? Have you? Dare you?
The Hedgehog realizes he is blood and fatty flesh.
Wire mesh, mess, bird’s nest,
Hair!
Take the brush and run, squealing pigs,
the laughter carries as the mother pleads and begs.
And so the story goes along with rhythmic wipers.
In the dark, headlights think of a house.
While we sometimes think of a breast in my soup.
Yes, my Cabbage-head,
Yes, my Cabbage-head.

The Hedgehog is himself, sometimes,
in spite of the Hedgehog.
The cannon, however, just is.
(Do you think it’s fair?)
Open your apertures then, and preach
to the bubbled apes in the air, who,
(with some luck)
will soon be as lithe as my famous father.
Where to now? asks the elevator.
Whom do you eviscerate? the liquid quietly replies,
it is always paradoxically ours anyway,
or did you not know?

Hark! The final confrontation begins.
Hark!
The warrior came and my wheelchair calls to me.
Clanking breasts and the baby food escape,
back to the Sea, to the smell of His cows.
Lo! I am the Hedgehog!
and my overlord, father?
In the meantime, he speaks of another in the oven,
and, as our aqualungs are filled (by and large),
they mushroom, they, the fungus monoliths,
who fly with vicious motion to a land. a destination, I suppose.
Hark! The War Carriers come!

Kevin has been practicing very hard. One day he hopes to be Batman’s sidekick.