The Oblivion of Light

All creatures are lovely. All lovely people are creatures. Everything is light and dance.

Fish in a ball, eyes of illusion and mysteries.

Mysteries of example, meaningful ideas of those who die in a circle of trust, or in moody waters and long-horned streams.

Laughter near death is deliverance from hell into the realization of beauty.

Even beauty can describe images born of lust, or the deep fall from grace. Beauty and conforming life are the nails of diffusion.

Death brings us together. It gives the ladies an excuse, a chance to be unconscious and reckless.

Where there is opinion, there is an oblivion of light — a truth of meaningless sex.

Fragmented pieces of love in sentences of decaying madness, the certainty of hallucinations being alive all at once. Let it be free, something to relay, something to eat. Living thoughts of others are poisoning our ground.

Only murder is good and wine is clergy. Let it be free in a killing spree.

English words move from magic to war, one step ahead of warnings.

Let them be free. Kill all the words in English, and only then will light have a chance to live.

There is no more God upon us or beside us; only murder, like killer monkeys in a horrendous zoo of imagination.