Moon Sammy walks. Across the floor. Below the floor. There is a wall.
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Behind the wall. There is a chair. Moon Sammy knows. The chair is there.
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But that's OK, that's OK, you can do that--if you're wound up, full of tension,
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incoherent. Your mouth is buttered with lies; you ask why, but you could
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call it enigmatic; all your thoughts about the chair are full of static.
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Automatically your mind goes down the stairwell to the chair; your body
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says Moon Sammy, can you come back?
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Strum it.
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Moon Sammy washes. In the sink. Below the sink. There is a drain. The drain
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goes straight. Into the sea. The sink itself. Is porcelain.
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Obsess yourself with causality. The information you hear is a loophole,
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technicality. Behind every object is a mathematic; an obscure substance
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infused with a kinetic force, energy, an obscure conscience shoots a gun at
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the feet the world dances.
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Babylon, mystery, mother of harlots, and all these abominations of the
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earth, that sits on many waters, drunk with the blood of the martyrs of
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Jesus.
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And I wondered with great admiration.
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-----------------
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MOON SAMMY
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| Soul Coughing |
