Warning: this poem is about images and not about message. Do not try to understand it, there is nothing to understand. It exists solely to invoke mental sensations. So, just see it...
I write because I am the mutated whoreson of that dastardly trinity of whose DNA runs through me: slang, literary mystique, and the surrealistic hallucinations of the opium poets mad. I do not write to convey some message.
I write because I can't paint. The brush didn't flow with my hand so I tap these keys like Mozart's requiem in D. I want anybody to read whatever neon scribbles I elucidate onto paper and watch what I've written come to new life. Think of me as the cryptic image-maker, lips spittin' tracers of metaphors streaking the consciousness of horizons arising. I'm a warrior like Orion but I grip quills and smite those denying the beauty of this language that's dying.
So instead of making films for you to see only that which it was that I saw I lace these parchments with a secret code—a programming syntax if you will. Now, do not read the words for what they are, but rather allow your eyeballs to soak up the little black symbols into a glossy lather like a brand new sponge in a pool of batter.
Next, just let the words bloom into plaid violet sights and chirping sounds like chickadee symphonies of bursting mad violent rounds. Let the temptations of connotations cascade, that is to say ripple, spill, pour, spurt, course, jet, spring, teem, crawl about the lands untouched and unplowed and forgotten that smell of sweet residue dandelion field lily aroma mystique.
Look, do not read these lines as if a hidden speaker was droning some dreary voice throughout your dead empty skull—this isn’t a book on tape. Think Fantasia! Watch the words metamorphosize inside your psychedelic imaginary creatures roaming maze blocks about the limitless space of your brain caves.
Be a god to rebel mornings dawning on you realizing it all radiates from within you that is the universal venue so let go and roll on visions Zen and true. So will you bohemians swill in those rich globs of syrup hues and cool jazz colors and obsidian pools, flowing downstream that Jungian sub-conscious river. It's simple just think of pastels and lavenders, and copper brass fluorescents, just peel back the essence.
But do not read the words, repeat, do not read just the words—but translate the code. For if I was to point you to the heavens above you wouldn’t look at my finger, but at the dappled sheets of a thousand dead suns.