Zeitgeist Mephistopheles

Mephistopheles, he of days
and rotting steel—
his brain was a mine
more important than brand.

The same pattern in my stars:
a symbolism complex of echoes
displays the food of California,
the one right fruit and close art.

Intuition unleashed the back rent
minus some important things,
also not secrets, flashing before
your monster of another sister.

You can open and way the cake—
there are now only spleens
in the last gravity of money,
maybe more than two.

Maybe a writing,
describing shifted characters,
remembering it all on the color boundary,
the way walls make up the days.

Things like desire, blood, mouth.
Aye, the fruit returns, seasoned,
just use it on me when you
can’t but need their secret.

O, multitude, meaning the cubic I,
the rebel life, the thing, the hurly-burly,
a gigantic network of end ingredients,
more complex fruit and space patterns.

Repetition can’t need them but
the secret maddening of their socks
isn’t another spiritual to us,
taking it as magical black milk.

A nebulous little parasitic brain drink,
every second of every one.
We rubbed to see between our different thinking—
oxygen, quicksand, and reasonable angels.

Devils recognizing that there is a door—
thoughts appearing in multiple happenings
resulting in similar physical space.
Again no repetition of information here.

I want the gangrenous black juices,
and will not give, until my I is dawned,
gut detached, folding in on myself,
both eyes weaving, duh!

The Information tape of my imagery is a canticle too crude.
Typing under invisible floors,
recurring through midnight ribeye,
and oil-stained broccoli material.

Literally a throwback
into empty storage,
empty outsides,
swallowed from The Light Messiah®.

The flesh of your brain so purple
they touch black, suck black,
they choose life, symbol, space, stars,
from, technically, a beach.

We are both makeup sirens,
a bomb motif, neither air, nor
shifting chocolate breath,
a tunnel, a scar, a moment, a little drink.

Repetitions are patterns of
repeated sounds and things
made up of the universe.
Patterns are repetitions of.

We are both high
on a more fascinating level—
she’s going to be him,
he’s going to devour a universe.

Their movie, a calling out, was
immutable, empty, a throwback
from the happening, the moment
a tunnel inside the suck.

The door on my ceiling,
a tunnel of money,
of black matters alive,
inside the walls of free-thinking.

Decant a pot of storage,
create a life of signs,
choose to free your need,
because it's all the same anarchist air.