Thursday, July 31, 2014

Operation Gleaming Iris (written in Venice Beach)

Man, the heartbreak is like, deranged oblivion.
 Dust wants to take you from which it hence.
The colored dirt that decorates a girls face is a reminder,
 like a flower that wails, to ascend from personal, inner hell.
There is no escape from dust, it covers the desert with its shroud
 and the sky with it's veil.
Thinly, dimly, does one fear that life is just a tear
, from the eye of the sky.

 Superspy Giorgo in the Bosphorous
be the saviour to preserve our words and breath as they write
dignitaries in the halls of eternity,
oh Superspy Giorgo kindly wrestle the Quintessential White Ray Gun
from the bitter and yellow-velveted hands of the D.E.C.E.P.T,
 Order of the Ovarian Ovoid.
 Roaring is the stardive, pleasant phantasms, let us remove our ashen hoods
 to reveal our true identities to the sidekick, Agent Olga,
whose long legs are the pillars that hold monolithic testaments
 to ancient hegemonies that divide knowledge and time.
Weeping is the sunclock in the shadow of her blonde mane that glows in starlight.
Let us undertake the mission, Operation Gleaming Iris