Force The Hand of Chance (Cleopatra)
by Lex Marburger
Now, from inside Thee Temple Ov Psychic Youth: * * * * * I’m not sure what just happened. I went to sleep with the TV on again, and woke up in a dream machine, courtesy of Gysin. The world seems to expand into the sideways dimensions sliding into bisections of the standing perpendicular. The space opens up, to force the hand of chance. Thee hoofed god was waiting for me, arms outstretched to grasp stars as they stand proudly, tearing atoms to sub-basic components, letting me hear their strange cries of birth from a universe that excites them, finally.
So I gave Isis the lotus, and watched her frolic on the floor. Whence the stolen kisses came hither? * * * And he slipped into the Goddess sphere, no longer sure of journey’s end. Pacing the floor with the calm patience of imminent death, opening the next trapdoor into a spider’s den.
Cyber stranger stepping dusty driven in the shadows of the future, ever-present and ever-protested. Made for cemeteries. The dust begins to cohere, swinging its simple love with a gentle caress. Beautiful daughter, when can the return be made, until the sunset burns the world? Hawks shriek in freedom as they become released from the bedroom torture that materializes slick friction invading the reality of movement and of wind… and of wind… and of wind… and ov power.
And now, through power, through gauzy curtained tapestries of the nomad’s tent, I smile at the shimmering sound, feel the vibrations wash and waft over my forehead and chin and ear. I hear thee romance of a sleeping giant, an ogre whose greedy, cardboard face can take the leather-choked skin and pull the arms back into a smile. I cannot abide this introspection in another prolonged minute. I must return to my home world of flashing images and specks of light. I can’t find my mind.