Opus Mysticus

Opus Mysticus Let us enter... and be silent. My insanity hangs on the wall with all the other Van Goghs. Sleeping snugly between semen stained sheets and saliva creased pillow cases. Inundations and vivid remembrances of days dead and hours traumatized. You and the skinny one behind the wheel. Whistling depressing dirges in D minor. Your vituperative Mein Kampf of the ages! She lifted her skirt and unzipped my soul! Young children bathing in the quagmire of Eden. Bellerophone on Pegasus riding through Hell's Kitchen in the upper east side. My problems are but pinned butterflies quasi-embalmed in glass cases seeking in futile the sweet revenge of past indignations. Where are they now? The artists of Transcript Necco? Of Zoot Horn Rollo? They're down on the dark city streets off in dark scummy alleys jamming till the lights go out. Elucidations. Proclivities. Paragons. Intense disaffections. She lifted her skirt and unzipped my soul!