Delirious whispers – mysterious moments – insidious fingertips.  

What's that blues riff doing, in the center of my soul?

I can't make sense of anything.   Dream eaters, poison gas, barrage, 
leech life, lovely kiss, sky attack, transform.  Bubble, dizzy punch, 
spore, amnesia.  Actions takable, percepts digestible, thoughts 
cognizable.  It all swarms through me quite inscrutably like alien 
warfare shapes.  

Rape the Nothing, it refuses to scream.

I know I have the whole universe within me.   I can do anything, I can 
see anything.  I plunge deeper than others.  I can build intelligent 
machines, time travel devices, teleportation chambers.  I've 
penetrated to the very core of love and grabbed the red jewel at 
the center, one bloody ring to rule them all, one ring to fucking bind 
them --  One ring, one ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind 
them – Yeah!

But then realities – shyness when talking to people – you look in her 
eyes and see the truth of connection but words fumble and tumble 
and twist.  She walks away with another, not understanding damn 
fuck.  You don't understand either.  She's dressed in clothes 
purchased at stores, she's speaking words heard on the radio.  She's 
an actual being; you thought she was an emanation of soul.   What is 
the source of the confusion?

And you too have disturbing real aspects.  The beige cream you put 
on your nose to partially obscure that huge pimple, the one with 
thirty-seven heads and four elbows.  Why should you really care 
about emanations of pus from fatty glands in your skin?  The stupid 
jokes you tell, trying to amuse.  And why not amuse, for Christ's 
sake?  What the fuck really is there?  The numerical iterations you 
run your mind through in the middle of sex, trying to keep yourself 
from coming.  The colorful pictures on your T-shirts.  Bob Marley's 
face streaming out, in the midst of tie-dyed whirls..

You thought you were an emanation of soul.  

To others you are a body.

There's a vibrant crazy world, a world buzz mad underneath.  A 
world where love is lovely violent, and sex between molecules 
cradles the earth.  You see it, feel it, breathe it, looking into her 
eyes, walking down along the street.  You're in the other world beneath. 
But no one else knows it.  But they all really do.  But they just won't 
admit it.  The universe is sick, sick, sick, obscuring its true nature 
from itself almost obsessively.   Is this how the universe was created?   
There was the pure, all-seeing void, and then – ba bing! Bing! Bing! – 
it decided to obscure itself from itself, and this decision, no, the
 idea even, before the decision, accomplished the evil act, blindness 
was born, reality created, and here the fuck we fucking are, you and me, 
looking at each other through a dirty fucking window and for 
moments seeing through, feeling through to the truth and love of 
each other as surreality exists, but then the moments fade and we're 
back again, we're merely bodies, bodies bodies, talking and making 
love searching the brilliance that brings us beneath beyond.