'To all tomorrow's parties

[...] And where will she go and what shall she do
When midnight comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown
And cry behind the door' - Lou Reed

ectoplasmic eczema mass mezes draws into
and marks as cancerous and who the fuck is
that eurinates into box that ding boom round
and round and round everywhere decides to
form and oil draw line between
to mark as supplementary, scar(r)ed οστεοφυλάκιον
(no parking dead belt), to translate an identity great
grandfather looks severely strict lunches stripped
bare in an infinite regress plate (room spring echo
hall) narcissus condemned to speak quoting/unable
to see other than self, as that other grand father
fairies follow trails; fairy trace
never say no to cry baby cry and then
merge into the ectoplasma 'βάλε jάλλο
μεν αντρέπεσε' (the room, you're part
of the room, topos tropos trofos tokos
tik tik tik tok)
and tomorrow know for today maybe
the good lord will take the wrong step
and fall flat in the face of beloved
and will cry cry cry
shame on
to follow the ghost, (Hamlet was
surely Shakespeare's), to remember, to fall for
you who (ectoplasma)
plate is full and never
(we are entering the fields of saturn)
empties already below δυσπεψία but also δυσκοιλιώτης,
hemaetic, desire towards or
the abjection of earth
to cut off the cancer to all tomorrows masses
of a spring that is more of a revelation than a ressurection
['Και ειδον, και ηκουσα ενος αετου πετομενου εν
μεσουρανηματι λεγοντος φωνη μεγαλη, Ουαι ουαι
ουαι τοις κατοικουντας επι της γης εκ των λοιπων
φωνων της σαλπιγγος των τριων αγγελων των μελλοντων
σαλπιζειν.' Αποκάλυψις Ιωάννου 8:13]
of an essence that is more an ever rediscovered curse than blessing
of a crowd that speaks of answers to something that
is not really a question
of homes that taste more sweet
in absentia
ωυββτθαν