Who knows what evil things Adam and Evil might've found in the
Garden, had they tarried after eating the apple? For before, they had
no knowledge of good and evil — now, God had to get them the Hell out
of there before they noticed the boxes of Panic and Disease stacked
behind the hedges.

Ned E. needs Eden. Babe E.'s on fire. Ned E. needs the Eden of
NEthing.
     The NE-Thing came out of the northeast. It was impossible to put a
form on it, for it was constantly writhing, like my writing, from one
shape to another. Sometimes it looked like a dragon, sometimes it
looked like a vulva, sometimes it looked like a tesseract.
     "Eden is Anything," said the NE-Thing without preamble. "Eden is
when you don't worry about your actions, you just do them. Actings.
You'll get to Heaven. You get to heaven through Eden. Eden is den E of
Heaven. It's the lobby, the vestibule. Eden is Venus. The flaming
sword is the silv'ry sword of acid rain falling from the terrible clouds.
     "This world loves you. This universe loves you. Your souls love you.
Your friends and associates and perfect strangers love you. Angels in
the bleachers cheer your every year. Important and trivial, "good" and
"bad", it all fits into the scheme. It all constitutes the song of You
which will be sung forever in the heavens with endless improvisations.
There are enough heavens so that everybody's got his own. Everybody
lives in their own universe — heaven's the loft. The lofty heavens, the
attic of universes. The treehouse with the comfy pillows and the
westerling light through windows cut out of rough-hewn boards.
     "You are already saved. Now what? Create, 'stead of living off the
buying and selling of others! Create a crate of crativity. It's
craterlicious! There are vicious licking organisms orgasming all over
the floors of Ionian craters! Report that to the world! And suchlike.
Whatever exists in your universe. Goof it out, then tell others.
     "Or not. No, you pretty much have to. And why not! You have the
right! Why wait? Wright! Frank Lloyd Wordwright had his geometrical
worlds."

The Non-Essential Eden Thing. Nee Jesus of Nazareth. Nee Jenny of
Nazareth.  Nee HaHa McBubbles.
     Eden of Nazareth.

Anything! N.E. thing. It's a northeast thing.
     Hooks in my flesh. Clankshells rolled by on the street. The
conflictorama. Conflicto, the robot acting at cross-purposes!

The Garden of Nede.
The Garden of Need.
Need is Eden.
Ned E. needs Eden!
The Garden of Ed N.

Ned Rag Fo' Ned E.

Dragen Of Eden
Dragon Ef Eden
Dragon Feed en

Rag End

Red Nag

Nerd fag done E.

The Eend.

Visionbells! I would rather play in Wordland! Whoring hoards of
whords in Whorland! Whorehound candy, molasses, sugar beets,
beating all the children out back t'the woodshed. Shitting in the
woodshid, later, out of spite. Take a bite out of spite! One should never
invite spite to a fite. One shouldn't fly a kight at nite. One should make
sure one's girl is tite. Tied. Quied. Quiedly tied and tight. Tiggling her.
     Weirdwordworlds, weirdwordlands, vardmardboroughs.
Yardboroughs. Varlmarlquarl? Query Karl Sparl. He's made of chalk
and marl. Marl makes me think of the cliffs of Dover. Chalky
something, marl. I have a table made of marl and burl. It's been
knurled, curled, and twirled (on a lathe, that is — the latter —
Thalatter).
     Verboten ghosts! Ghost lives? Ghosts! Live in Concert! Damn, I saw
something yesterday that made me think of ghosts-something, but
then forgot now. I mean, I must've forgot sometime between now and
then, or more likely, where I put the memory just isn't available to me
right now. We don't really forget anything, just misplace it in the
topiary maze of our mazeminds. Our amazed mands. Our mined
minds, gleaming with topaz in the topiaries, full of aviaries where the
bluebirds fly.
     Working deep in the mindmines tonite. I work the mindmines every
morning, actually. Dwarves and small train cars rumble back and
forth. The ten long thin dwarves chuck the contents onto conveyors,
and they're conveyed up the page and into the slurry bin of
forgetfulness. This is slag, my fir Neds. Ned E. needs Eden, remember,
so when you see him besure and give him a pear from the Tree of Life,
and a pple from the Tree of Vision.

Anenomic relations. Autonomic velations, metronomically challenged.
Mentronomes, brains clicking along mechanically, Charlie Mechan and
the Machinese.

Looking at the weather on the TV radar. Radar spelled backwards is
radaR. Gary Burghoff spelled backwards is Fogrub E-rag (phonetically
speaking).

Does friendship leave marks? Friendship marks. Mark the waterline
on the friendship.
     Friendship marks the waterline on the Friend Ship. The more
friends you have, the deeper the Friend Ship sits in the water. If you
have too many friends, the Friend Ship's liable to founder in a tall sea!

Last night, remembering Love. Unconditional. Everybody's going to
heaven. Feel that love inside you. Barriers are tensions, put there
muscularly, put there as baffles to the light. Afraid of the light, we
clamp our jaws tight, keeping words inside, till they worsen and
worsten, till they bubble out like Horsemen — tension lesions after the
tennis lessons.
     Learn your lesson! Accept it all, goddamnit. Approve of thyself. Like
the universe does. Do whatever you want, says the universe. Create
your personality. That's your job, to make a new personality. You don't
have to be the president or whatever, but you should fulfill your
various potentials. Your hairious potentials. Your hilarious potentials.
Your hilarious hairy poetentials.
     Your Larry potentials. My own thing is like...my poetential. Writing
and living. Doing well in that. Afraid I don't have control of my health
or situation or something, but everything's going fine, so I guess I do. I
have the choice thing down, man.
     Lately, it's just...am I just being Mr. Thwarted desire/love? Does
Mister really mean Missed Her?

Man infestation. Appearling the gritty decision. The pealing decision,
peeling derision off you in sunburnt skinions swatches. Then the fun
turned unguent-round the fernturned fens. Unguest your pestered
blister brothers and sisters. Your sothers and bristers. Your fine-tuned
sororities and barristers.
     Predigested prejudices swing like prepuces in adolescent
ceremonies. Cud fed on compartmented cafeteria trays. What's that
cud worth? It ain't worth a hill of dreams! Throe it away! Throw
passion pilloes, throes of ecstatic death throes.
     My mythic moth mother. Mythic mothy mothermonster. Mother
mothballs implant in fallopian halls, modeled on mythic magical mass.
The Monster — now playing!
     The world's your baby. The world's your body. Words are ideabones.
Words are eyes, dear bones. Words are eyes in palms of hands, eyes in
forehead-center plans, third-eye panorama glands of paranormal
grasping hands and infraredic EM bands, where ghostly supernatural
fans tap the backs of human hands, tapping messages and advice in
Morse Code.

Ideals on wheels. Eyedeals on heels. Hell heels squealing like
squalorhouse girls. Eye meals scream tinny, rarely, off on strange
itineraries. Heaven, Hell, the Akashic Warehouse, Dimension X, etc.
Eye tin earies, dearies.
     Bridget's ridges, Bridget's lace and underwire bridges. Bridget's
domes and minarets. Bridget's gentle spiderfingers. Bridget's smacking
lips, bridging the sparkling static electricity span. I squeal in keen
release, coarse curly girlyhead cradled.
     Bridget's bridging energies, Bridget's divine synergies. She's a
standing wave, a shocking energy signature cutting across
zeitundweltrum boundaries, an axial deary for dreary, diagonal
galaxies. Diagonal agony galaxies, divine agonies clutched in her
starshaped hands.
     The entire world stands in awe of Bridget's bounciful, beautiful
boobs. Sex empress on a drunken mission of love. When I die, my God
will be a beautiful tipsy woman who embraces me tenderly, carpets my
face and ears with soft, moist kisses, and reaches into my briefs to
gently jack me.

Work with the earth. Work worth the earth.
     Jack, Janet, & Chrissy. Tabitha once turned out all the power on
the eastern seaboard. The eastern seaboard is awash in lint. The
eastern seaboard has its limit.
     That phrase is yellow and bluegreen — eastern seaboard. Eastern
seaboard. Eastern has always been yellow, ever since the sun started
rising in the east. Seaboard is like a cribbage board in sections, blue
green, slightly mossy & corroded, but in a pleasant way, like an old bar
of copper that's been resting on the bottom of a warm shallow sea.
     Poems of terrestrial synthesis. Sincretism. Concrete sins on your
necks like yokes. Forgiven you your own sins. Given granite legs, Janet
ranit up a hill. Jack fell down and roamed around, looking for his
longlost Jill. Christ showed up too, looked a little lost, then climbed
upon a cross and upto the sky was tost — then Chrissy showed her face
and all the world was in its place.
     Listen for all yer worth, earth! Stop and listen hard.

Why do we have to KNOW everything? Why do we have to fuck with
everything? Why don't we just live our lives, anyway? Some kind of
knowledge is just fuckin' useless, isn't it? Much knowledge is simply
trash knowledge. If it has to be anywhere, it's best kept on the
Internets of the world so that you can look it up when some other bit of
trash knowledge requires a related bit of trash knowledge, usually
when you're collecting and pushing around trash knowledge in pursuit
of paper money.
     Which is basically what work's all about, the sorting, rearranging,
presentation, and consumption of trash knowledge for money.
     What's not trash knowledge? That which we commonly consider
trash knowledge, probably. You're gonna have to answer that question
for yourself, to see which side of this trash issue you fall upon. And I'm
not going to help you, and I don't want to hate you either. And I won't
hurt you, in any event. Nobody can really hurt another person — people
only really hurt themselves, either by arranging to be hurt by others,
or by rearranging offense at things, presuming and assuming a mantle
of hurt.
     But why do we need to know everything? The pursuit of knowledge
is exponential — the more you get, the more you want. For every
question "answered", 100 more questions appear! The more you chop,
the more there is to chop. Every broom you cut in half with your axe,
there are hundreds more, and soon, a person is drownded in a sea of
stress. It's an existentialist's nightmare.
     Forget about it! That's the cure. What's important will remain in
your mind. Your mind is lined with grates that let all the little things
escape once you let loose the drains. The big things you're working on
will remain behind. What's important will remain behind.
     Bill Grates. The grates' holes are the size and shape of trivial,
unimportant details. When you purge your floodied mind, they all flow
downoutward into the subjacent subuniverses. The sewerverse. Get yer
mind out of the gutter by flooding the sewerverses of the world with
the severed swerving verses and self-serving nurses of the urges of the
purges! To the gulags with the Stalinurges! One should depose and
send into exile one's own Stalinurges, the terrible, tensionizing urgings
of demiurges, whenever possible and also whenever impossible.
     Speaking of Stalin, he died on March 7th, 1953, the same day as
Prokofiev. 12 days later and also 11 years later, I was born. I listened
to Peter And The Wolf as a child. What's that musical really about —
Peter the Great, and the Wolf Stalin?
     Stalin's real name was Joseph Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili. He
changed his last name to Stalin, which means "made of steel" when he
became a revolutionary. That was a significant name change, I'd say.
Just ask Marion Morrison and Archie Leach.
     Man — if that other guy had remained a painter, and Joe'd
remained Comrade Dzhugashvili, the world would've been a different
place. Up strides Roosevelt who never contracted polio. The Japanese
invade to the west instead, during the turmoil of the 20's. World War II
begins in the '50's, when they drop a nuke from Sputnik — only it'd be
called something Japanese.

Witchcraft wissles past my window. Wishcrafts whistle past my
winder.
     Warm mirth in the worm earth. Lie with me in the warm loam.
Worms recycle our loaned flesh. We lived in boxes then, and will again,
ones without lights or doors.
     My big American spirit desires new vistas. The Russians were
wrong, but they tried something new. America will become so
conservative that peristalsis will slowly grind to a halt, and then the
system will explode shit in all directions.
     Life is lately lacking. Denied their output, creative stories burrow in
my flesh and become boils and other pustulent cysts. I become a
leperous monstrosity, shambling about, searching for Jesuses. Were I
to unclench, all my lesions would slowly disentangle and lift off, like
weird birds, morphing as they moved and soared off flapping in all
directions toward openings in the mashed potatoes clouds. Leaving my
skin pink and clean.
     Stimulants make ants dance. My eyes pierced with valen tines, my
veins crawling with stimul ants. With their mandibles, they attack my
fascia and soft connective tissues.

Creativity vomit. Empty yourself. Open yourself and chuck all the
fishbones out there. Express aches and pains. Express lesions and
pustules. Tensions, little balls of tension, are like lesons. Leech lesions.
Tension lesions. Teech lesions. Teach lesions lessons! Teach tensions to
dance. Channel tennsions, tennis lessons, channel tensons into
creative pursuits, man. Turn it to tennis advantage. Ad-out! Vomout
tennis balls in all directions. Don't play tennis, Dennis! Play games,
James!
     Tear down the net. Frost, you fuck! Tennis without a net. Fuck the
fucking net, you frocksucker.

Man-written stuff...be suspicious of the man-written. Since every word
is manwritten, be suspicious of it all. If the philosophy comes from a
man, then it's about 50% true. If it comes from a channeled source, it's
about 75% true, but 100% opinion — what am I trying to say here?
     Trust the privately-channeled. Trust what comes from inside. Trust
the true-feeling revelations. Test it against your personal St. John. At
the risk of opening a can of worms, it may not be true in a universal
sense at all — but that hardly matters. You create your own reality.
That's true. So whatever's revealed to you, and thus works in your life,
that is your reality and no other.
     So in the end, the ultimate philosophy is no philosophy at all, thus
opening the way for all philosophy — you create your own reality. As a
man thinketh, so shall he be. And while I thought that was from the
Bible, the quote in the bible is different, so mine is original.

Parrotdoxical frog cyclical tetracycline tablets. What's on my rind this
morning? What's my rind? Feed me my lines, O thou spines that bind.
Muscles are ties that bind the amoebic arms and members of the soul
and keep them from spilling out jelly-like in complete relaxatory
blobulousness. Otherwise, we'd be blobbing and wiggling around the
wobbly world on the laminar planetary boundary layer — we'd be
blurking bloobing bags of bony slag, crackling clacking down the
streets — "Hi Bob" "Oh, hi, Sid" — So, yea, verily, I thank god for the
bloody bungee cords that put the tension in my skeleton.
     But. As thin flexible metal strands combine to form massive
bridgecables of hardsteel — this occurs in my own neck braces,
snagging the guywires of my faces. (Who is Guy Wires, anyway?) Like
dockropes leading up into the noses of towering black hulls — these
cleats and clamps sometimes behave as if to keep my head socketed in
my shoulders against my head's natural desire to blast off rocketlike.
     3-2-1-Ignition! There goes the vertebooster, my head bound for
orbit, where explosive bolts will fire, and my temples will foldout open
like a flower, solar panels and antennae, deploying, my gleaming
circular eyes will swivel and focus inout on sights along the leylines
and starlines and laserlines of the billion brilliant light years.
     But. Blastoff cannot occur until the tensionlock on those clamping
cables has been relaxed & unhasped. Those clamping TMJawbones of
asses, braying tight-lipped spit-sprays of blubbering — or braying
nothing at all, lockjaw, words backing up loud and feedbacky in your
sealed leadlined cranial basilica dome, until it seems that your ears
must loudspeaker what can't fight past your interlockd teeth, those
gears of fears — the grease of release. Increase the grease of peaceful
release!
     Release unharmed, catch and release, release uneaten, those greasy
ass fears, the asswipings of angels, the swatchswipings of criminals in
forensic evidence-gathering, gathering fears in stormclouds of tears,
TV feedbacking pain and justification, collection and concentration,
one drop containing a million frowns and darkened brows. With that
drop sizzling on your tongue, the visions are of skulls and snakes and
scarecrows with rakes and raspy fantastic spidery things. Laugh,
rinse, spit, open wide, let the masked man in white drill more
corruption out of your filthy mouth, leaving it bone-white clean
pristine in there.
     Don't let those fears catch their spurs in your teeth as you open
your mouth to let them out in your belief that they're toxic ravens of
disease which generate inevitably inside your chest due to the
machinations of reality, and must be released posthaste into the
atmosphere — that's giving mouth birth to a squiggly spirochete beast,
a matte-black materiophage, macroscopic, a little black ungulating
snakecloud like a twist of ink in water, to latch its raspy lamprey
mouth on someone's ears and suck their brain out — that's not what
I'm advertising.
     These wormthings multiply in you as long as you lay down fungus
and rotted newspapers and layers of peat and periodic shitflows —
polish out your chromium cranium and leave not a single rut for rot to
fester. NASA would never blast off a dirty rocket! They launch only the
finest and gleamingest, once the morning twilights at last quit
twinkling, and the stars and strips snap in the fresh Florida air — but
not too cold, lest the O-rings let go.
     Oh! Rings! Those muscley sphincters, like the neckring, neckyoke,
necksphincter that closes off the kundalini light now and then, F-
stopped from welling up into the sub-basements of your brain and
filling that room with underfloorboard light — liquid fire and clouds
skyscraper from the rocket's liftoff nozzle — tension irises down,
squeezes down and dries the pupils of your eyes to drypale pinpricks,
closes out the light rioting everywhere around your darkened space
race face.
     Why do you think Jesus had a nimbus, a halo? His head was full of
light. He had no doubts, conflicts, pauses, pardons, mazes, his head so
full of clarity that the firehosing light corruscated currents up from his
prostate, where kundalini energy enters this universe on wings of
breath, and up into his braincase, where it dissolved the baffles and
eggshell soundproofing and walls of glass, mudbrick, and thatch, and
so forth, and left him free to concentrate upon his destiny — what that
was, I couldn't say for sure, for I don't buy the official accounts.

This computer, my big transmuter. My head is hermetically sealed. It
has openings, yet is pure — all the openings are guarded by organs.
Organ donors, Donner parties of panty raiders, party guardies, hale &
hearty, beating and eating alien beasties. Mind is yeasty, rises and
browns, like butter-top bread in the old commercials — what kid didn't
get a hankering for a hunk of bread right around then?
     Mind inflates, presses against the curving inside of the ovenwomb,
threatning lightning — my quaking oat flour organscones roll like
sepulchre slabs across the orifices — The easter ego, wrapped in a
shroud — now it can be told out loud:
     Joseph of Arimathea was a cannibal! That's why he supplied the
cave in his garden, and that's why the body of Jesus disappeared.
When the stone was safely over the mouth of the cave, Joseph stole in
through a secret tunnel and ate Jesus! On the Sabbath, no less! He
then spirited away the bones and made a killing in reliquaries.
     The vents screech shut with a squeal and clang, the heat increases
bang by bang — crazy from the heart! You have to open your mouth
and vent that beating art, or it will build kilnlike and eat apart the
clapboards of your trojan heart. My eyes and nosehairs and uvula and
earbones stand guard, throwing stones at foreign ships. And if the
ships run the blockade and make it into the bay, out fly hordes of little
brownbacks, antibodies from the Antipodes, flying through rigging,
flying flaying the skin off the startled soiled sailors.
     In the center of my jack-o-lantern head is an imaginary candle.
Only worrywinds can make it flicker and tremble. The only way it can
be blown out is by smashing the pumpkin. If I don't get smashed, it
burns on and on. Even when it someday gutters and dies, the ashes
spread, nonetheless my shomus candle still burns, and that one can
never be blown out. Once lit, it burns eternally, without regard to time,
never consuming, always waxing.
     See the candle yellow in my jagged grin and dancing eyes.

"Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and
the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never
decreases by being shared."
The Teaching Of Buddha, p. 260

The shape of worms to come. The King of Worms to Come. The
microscopic worms that come, headed worms that come in jets of
alkaline sperms. Tadpoles that grow arms and legs and lose their tails
and grow their fairytales. Lose your obligation tails, the 3-d rattail
tubes of your past through future, and magically you grow tales in all
directions. The very void comes alive with noise. I've become
accustomed to it now, where first it was frightning.
     Life arises out of hypnotic suggestion. Who do you believe? Doctors
start your body on a life of crime and anger. Anchors wine and crime
you in primetime. Priests fill your skinny skins with sins. You seine
the airwaves for lifemeaning, and all you hear's the teeming sound of
dreaming, and your dreams are pregnant with tadpoles of the millions
— strainem outto your draining pregnant brain. Embargo the poling barges
of tadpoley cargoes.
     Embark with hypnotica cargos of dark, symbolica farrows of
squealing young pork. Fill your holds with golds from the princely
springly inspiration hoards. Not the vulgar gold of the world, but the
aurum philosophicum of alchemy, god gold freely showing between the
paws of the dogs of the world. And Jesus spake, "Do not give dogs what
is holy." Some of the best advice I've ever seen is in Matthew 7 —
provided you read it right. That is, provided you read it left, through
your left eye, the creative, metaphorical eye.
     But, that pearls before swine thing is kind of dumb, and the more I
think about it, the dumber it gets. How many herds of swine would try
and tear you apart if you chucked a bunch of pearls in their sty?
Precious few. They'd only snout you into paroxysms of ticklish
laughter. The people of today aren't wild boars, they're mild bores,
tame sows and shoats, and the worst thing they'll do under a rain of
pearls is try and eat them, then ptui them back out again in the mud.
: : : . . .
     And fer chrissake, what asshole ever said throwing pearls at any
animal, porcine or otherwise, was useful? What good do pearls do for
anybody or anything they get thrown at? All you can do with a pearl is
look at it and wear it. You can't eat it. It won't nourish you. A pearl is
an undigested bit of grit from a mollusc! It's already an indigestible —
if you ate one, you'd gack it up. You'd have to swallow it with water
like a pill, and even then, your stomach would probably make a bezoar
out of it.
     A pearl is just an oyster bezoar! Whomever put those words in
Jesus's mouth should've thought a bit about what symbols they were
using and transmitting. Reminds me of the funny Buddhist
conundrum where they say not to lust after enlightenment like a
precious thing, then eight pages later speak of enlightenment as a
precious pearl sought through hazards and obstacles by the intrepid
diver/seeker. And this after saying at the top of the program that
desire is evil and the root of all suffering, even though the obvious
single taproot common to both this suffering and the seeking of
enlightenment is the desire to end suffering!
     Yea, verily, the straight Way appears crooked. Ho! KRAK! Course,
no matter how hard you look at something, you'll see retrograde
tendencies in the orbits of some of its planets. That doesn't invalidate
the other ideas and slogans that ring true. All these things are nets,
and nets are funny that way.

Damyata, restrain yourselves
Datta, give
Dayadhvam, be compassionate —
Da da da! An 80's tune/90's ad takes on a new meaning!

Deliberate obscuration, like alchemical secrets, like Jesus speaking of
parables, like Kandinsky's search for an object-less painting, to "touch
the soul of the beholder."
     Kandinsky said, "The depiction of objects, of the objective world,
had no place in my own paintings, and was indeed actually damaging
to them."

Heh, words go together so well. Think of the monstrance, a glass
shrine in which the host is presented to the congregation before
communion. Which is utterly monstrous, when you think about it.
Transubstantiation my spotty bum. Transubstantiate this, baby.
     And then, of course, the "host" itself, upon which the parasite feeds -
- oh, Jesus Christ, let us leech onto your stigmata and eat your flesh
and drink your blood. This relationship is called a parasitic
relationship. Not symbiotic, for Jesus gets nothing.

I often get swept along with the gentry and en-coarsen my eye for
details, and forget to view them, savor them, let them swell in my
loving, particulate, atomic attention.
     It gets so that a person doesn't think he has "the time" to appreciate
the fine details of things, the nibbles and nuances of things. Our minds
become huge gaping maws, like snakes eating eggs, jaws opening
unhinging wide. Things have to be large, fast-moving, struggling,
wriggling, to draw our attention. And all 1,000,000 advertisers out
there are angling for our attentions as if we're enemy soldiers — "We
have to hit them from multiple sides", this from a piece in Rolling
Stone about advertising.
     I think it's highly likely that when you rest your millpond and turn
off the fucking wheel and unhinge your jaws and maybe sit out this
eggmeal, furchrysache — when you grow new eyes for new details,
polish up your beauteyes and fill the huka bowl with love to curl about
in an intoxicating smoke — that when you sniff nuances of things,
you're opening to the joy hidden in every crack and crevice and
molecular synapse and atomic interstice. And not even hidden, just
waiting. The nourishing qualities of various foods are probably due to
their joy content, and how much of that you can convince your body to
accept. Beauteyed and joyminded.
     Heh, actually, it's their sun content, basically, calories originating
in sunlight photons and magically produced in green meristems —
that's the green-golden joy of the alchemists. Just go look at the bottle
in the supermarket, if you don't believe me. It's yellow, like all the
other dishwashing detergents — yellow or green. Green and gold —
alchemy right in that huge booming washbox there in your kitchen!
     To what base uses may we return, Horatio — the Work, reduced to
cleaning dishes! This is the problem with America, in a nutshell, in a
butter dish — all the things of real value have been relegated to the
corral of Pussy Things. The province of soft-headed monkeydulls.
While all that is Yang-rich, young, rich, testicular, probing, pushing,
all that is penile, frankly, is roaming out across the earth. The vaginal
has retreated into the niches and interstices for a bit, crouching with
rapt shadowed hooded attention. Thankfully, it's now coming back out
again, the female force, equality and equanimity, the mixture, the
necessary combination for all alchemical processes.
     Energize your eyez with beauty magnetics that spin your mind in a
love-wise erection direction. Floating floes of rows of god potatoes.
Once you make it back to the back of the pack, Jack-Jesus — the
blackjack of the wooden rack, Jack-Jesus — fill your sack with stacks of
jacks, and pack the pockmarked backs of reincarnated profits into your
starts and strophes.

Satan is man. Heaven is what's above, Hell is Earth, the lake of
volcanic fire, forged in the volcanic forge of aeons past. Now then. Man
was cast out of heaven into this lake of fire. Then...Along Came Jesus,
reminding of some good rules, showing that we're spirit and flesh,
telling what heavens we could aspire to.
     By dipping the fire, the firebrand, the glowing steel, into the water,
we could, like the steam, rise to Heaven.