PHANTASMATA

I feel so sick. I am depressed. I am struggling to wash that man right off of my hair. O, I’m bald. So I simply lay down on my divan and wrestled with demons to catch some Z's. I summon a company of sheep to dance me off to sleep.

I opened my eyes and i see Zaphira chasing the moon beneath the sky turgid with tears after Zeus and Hera had issues over Minerva while Ahab flaunts the milky sweat cascading down her breasts shaped like pomegranate, a profusion of seduction, pregnant with temptation, plucked by naive Ona who lives in far-flung Patagonia haunted by baseless fears of ogres that never exist in the mind of Tom Cruise at a burdened age of seventy two whose hands are stricken with ringworms, beloved by Demi Moore in a Catholic girl uniform with Pippy Longstocking braid that points up to the redwood trees towering high above Woodstock flooded with men in leather skirts studded with Swarovski stones, worshipping a drunken endomorph who wets his bed as lavatories stink with vomit, a bowl of shame, a legion of missing links, a protrusion that oozes out of every orifice of an army hauled up from the steppes of Russia before they were devoured by a swarm of arachnids cavorting on top of a bishop's mitre devoid of sanctity, far from divinity, refuge of the damned in a world that ends anytime today though a thousand candles are lit on Baclaran day as children eating corn smile out their teeth with unwashed Colgate peddled by a male shyster in tight white sleeveless collard blouse lent by the twins of Duffy Duck's semblance revelling in the company of embarrassment as though newly freed from the company of Rowena Cantuva who preys on the lonely and drown them in despair pushing them to take refuge in self-manipulation till they reach ejaculation and hum high notes like the fat lady in horned head gear belching a dirge to the sun god in the person of Descartes robed in Aristotle's toga drenched in Plantinga's urine after a drunken spree with Lilly Tomlin and Grace Jones in a bacchanalia of sour grapes and fried green tomatoes held in a choo-choo train that goes in a circle of ten when Pythagoras declared the perfect numeral during a solstice of the unfaithful hounded by the Emperor of Tonga who abdicated the Chrysanthemum Throne on the month he married Glen Close after Merryl Streep had lypo from tongue to cheek for days without end.