the drool of your pineal gland

 LOOK! ---wrapped in a luminous smoke of a diving suit that dances with the possibility of entering the cone of light of another vision---unrecognizable everyday life, traced in the crafts that sharpen COSMIC LISTENING, the drool of your pineal gland. With recapitulation, external noises become soft, better distributed in the brain, intelligible, predictable; a coagulating silence precedes each thought, which makes the neurotransmitters malleable, clean, capable. A rattle made of disordered phrases, with gaps to insert images, a tongue full of poison against false teeth, a hauntingly sleepy matte, zigzagging, welcoming a bit of the voodoo of the ''varied trivial'', with a pinch of déjà-vu. Then a sport that is planted on paper, fueling thought; then, like swift sparks in the cold warp of the Machine, the grip of the lapidation, the poem with me stops, run over in its own skid. After having used all possibilities I reach the astral, the bloody threshold of the work, any exact explanation unnecessary here: business cards stuck to the soul, waiting for eyes soaked in plasma ionized by mirror neurons - exposed - scenes - the smell of them among themselves photonic - very manager of the hallucination I elect auxiliary succubi and at every moment I reclassify precedences - manifesting them makes the spectral procedure precise, fills the piece with indelicately realistic understandings.