Pleasure Dome

The change is slowly coming like murder in the back alley. It won't be neat or sweet, but messy, and the moon will reflect in the cardinal pools. The hand of a stranger wrenching the deepest secrets from any subdural cavity, flinging the remnants about. Akin to a drunken neurosurgeon who has a penchant for psychotic episodes. The effluvium of dormant limbic activity reaches the nostrils by way of a ghost's lingering, indecipherable love melody. A soulless beggar or a stray dog on my porch gives reinforcement to the crumbling foundation that rests before the golden cross. Cherubs need more grease for the gears that the bedraggled nobleman has primed for the faustian machine. Shall the slaughterhouses reopen? Maybe the banquet should be served on the convex table complete with sandwiches made of dust and weeds. The change brings dirt devils and the clanging of wind chimes that belt out Beethoven's 9th with all the glory of any bacchanalia ever dreamed up by the whims of peripheral thoughts.