A Propitiation of Blue Tears

A Propitiation of Blue Tears On this highway to where the skies bleed blue tears into vases; on ornate buttresses they sit and saturate us, they cry and douse us, they contract, expand, release….up from the bowels, out into the time continuum, wetting the things below in layers of satin and matte finishes. They converge with the sand motions prone to time signals, they bend to the forces of beeftime, finding dazzling hours lost in the haunted bunkers where dead reptiles find savage grace and a fork. Foraging through time files, scratching out a dirt-bath patch, switching-up the game, ratcheting a firm grip, delighting in a geyser-water soda drink, we looked and saw high peaks belching snow through ejaculations of ice and methane, you who were with me at Orange Grove that whistling foggy night, the high forging time, like an eating bear in the muck. The withal that composes an early humanoid, assembles an adroit package equipped to message the night skies of its dominion. Oh this highway, to where the skies have no answer for the frostbite or the death of the sun; we are not equipped to handle such a client, the skin is gone, and the seedy highway is coughing up yellow blood. Gather up the detritus of illusions, rustle up a repast for the “El Rey”, sweep the streets into asphalt rolls, spread the skies blue tears over the mantle of this space, where the sacrificial ogress dines on her own offal, offering up a propitiation, to the Milky Way’s highway of stars. Harry Pim and D.Lee