Spidering a Home

Walking through the forest were my faces all in line,

I heard

Whispers through the strings of sun rays,

Speaking through these faces made of trees.

I found

walking moments, just barely contrived, that is--without the proper mystery of unlearning.

(you see)

Sam lost his brain a century ago, like a silk spun to its end, at the belly of the spider;’s womb. In that womb, she awakened. Now, as a lamb to the slaughter she sits marinating in our sins. She soaks in heaven, releasing silk from her bosom, a bosom so plump and merry in its purpose- a quaint interjection of self dissociating closer towards the walls, she is capable of bearing great news..

The web,, the victim of the story is its master- the spider. So as sam lost his mind, as he had been programmably leaping from corner to corner, the exterminate cause came knocking at his door.

Tulip: What is the purpose of your madness?

Sam: to rest apart from conscious. To dream. To feel its faint aroma thicken.

Tulip: I am meant for you.

Sam: You always found a way around my metronome, my patterned puzzling plots, all dripping from the edges of my lips, salivating, foaming, frothing with the desire to be you. To be us. To be moved---supposing suppositions work in doubly tantric ways----as those nails tick away at my computer’s edge. I find peace in knowing that this can be replaced at any moment.

God is good.

God is great.

Double entendre for your spiritual virginity being interjected by an ejaculate cause----birth of an anomaly. Life wrapped around the sexuality of a writing desk. Life wrapped around a book- mixed in, almost beaten together, with the faintest fragrance of your forgiveness. Please forgive me father, “Says the nunnery,” for we were only cultivating art.

Leaping into the corner of my favorite home, I find release in knowing that there is perhaps an inner voice, hidden inside of my creative. This voice of reason, or something I can hope is my own.