Lingering Recollection of Syllabi

I was sitting in my bedroom that hot August day listening to radio head, dreaming of her while the walls disappeared in vapors, when I got some news through social media that the world was collapsing around us, while we sit in the arms of solipsism with our cell phone existences, driving away demons. Seems we've put a clown in the presidency again, who wants to have some control, dumb grabbin' her by the pussy attitude that he will be a martyr like all the rest, shot in the head, you see, it isn't too far to see the truth without the smoke and mirrors of media ,penetration. Then again the darkest days were upon us and that is why we are all fucked. Time to write, I thought, as I turned up the music and delivered the world upon its little prissy knees, conquering the course, bringing the monster to its knees, in this fancy partition of a sector we shouldn't even mention, now fuck it. Lighted presence takes control, and we lose ourselves in the moment, all the while concentrating on the fuel source, that deludes the consciousness while that bastard sits alone, swimming with the spirits that hover above my head, into the garden with serpents climbing up the spine in the kundalini orgasm you feel while you are getting in the zone, where the rocket is not the answer, but climbing up sewer drains dealing with shit, rats, and flowers climbing in the sky with the freedom to say fuck and go to that depth--burning up in the memory of burning out quickly till the night came, and it scared the fuck out of me. Down a tunnel to see the truth, for what, the edge of existence is dark at times, now sitting in the same chair that I had heard Jesus lifting his torch to me, for the reason to light the thoughts which remembered the lamb sighing in the manger at the nativity. Fables of divinities only prove our hope that there is a certain upper level that we should all ascend to, in the lamps of dignity over the money falling from the skies sometimes that leaves my skin pale to be born in the silence of the tomorrow, only in fragments of association, when schizophrenic winters take you down the rabbit hole to go through labyrinthine galaxies in those eyes, she had, to see, to believe in her is always some sort of mystery that never happened, as though for some reason, I was out of my depths in exasperation that this was actually happening, and I think I sent her a cock shot or something, and the whole thing went to shit. That reminds me of something I should ask those who have ever attended the last mirage ceremonies in Nevada? Where you have just one split second to say yeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssssssssssss or you forget all of yesteryears beliefs in angels and sacraments of a lesser god, the one who has all of the power is within oneself, that situation is a make up figurative lie! Trump comes in the picture now, raising his belly to the camera, look at how fucking fat I am! Look at what a pig I am! Sitting in the lap of luxury has never been easier to confiscate the memory, of you, my whore who never was. This is though, and very alive with something to mark the moment of rebirth, into continual waves of entropy throughout this disabled system, that, in her opinion, was too much to understand, while alone in the dreams of morphine nights, losing oneself in opium imagination, to be discerned with death of the soul in turn, but all the while, ghosts of the past can't seem to catch up with the moment of now, that perfect time to shout, fuck you to the administration of hidden govenemental strategies that have warped my brain to the extent of submission to the most feral armies of the inner soul, where the galaxies in her eyes were so penetrating, I had to lose my mind, that was the moment that haunts me a bit, yet the most perfect thing is not caring a bit of all the lost opportunities to fly, for today I am the beast to become a venus flytrap of wonderment, all alone in the vast city of waste, this blessed USA, where it becomes a major victory to establish ones own belief system, that warms your spirit among the lies and feces of this holographic fuck fest of our minds, nothing sexual about that at all. Project blue beam and shit, mother fucker, that radio head song, played onward, as I lost thought of her, fell asleep and woke up in another trance where the only thing that mattered was to fake my ambiance to some lesser degree of stardust in her galaxy, my girl of whom I dream of now.
Still moving away, I awake to the light through the windows, entering my soul, cleansing me for another day in the universe of disillusion, but as I move further away from this strangulation of beauty she reminds still of, I can't believe her eyes were on me, for some reason I had to fuck it up. That was a day of glory, high on those mushrooms dreaming of the biggest and best thing, talking to her, thinking this cannot be for me, or is it? Just a thought. Now on to the next thing that comes to mind, when Donald Trump takes the stand and proclaims his mercy upon all nations, including Africa, to become the most distant things available to see the lust for life in the some little statues eyes, who saw me with a hool a hoop, sitting in yoga positions and shouting in her mind, for something I am not sure what it was, but then, the light still crushes the times of the past today, and the everlasting energy of poisons call me to them, holding up my protest sign for trumping love, as though it were a ghost of an administration of the early 2000's old boy George W sits in his coffin, singing to the committee to help him descend to rise into the alter, in some insignificant secret that has not ultimate revelation, no mortar shell shocked victims across the sea, where it must have been enclosed in darkness, a box of gold shit to show the world, as though it was something unusual to be able pour forth words of help and unreasonable triumphs for third grade pissing on a teachers leg, thinking that it would be another fragmentation that hums in the night time struggle to find that perfect height of which to look down and say, hey fuck you! This is my time to shout for a second, just a second, a mere glimpse of existence that will go on forever, if the peaceful resignations of life fold the paper to insinuations of a day when I was crawling around the floor looking for crack, or some other marvel of this shit town, that rises into the air, floating with weathered comments of the giant adenoid sighing again for another line, another bump once again, to just get to that perfect place, but it never does materialize, yet it is there, invisible in the arms of Christ, where I have always belonged, feeling soothed in that principle that God is always shining through the ceiling on me in more higher frequencies than any visible light, for the beauty of this invisible palace to come, is more pleasing to my mind than any whore that I would lick, or books I would read, to see that it is now time to write, and to write on I will. Fuck you, Donald Trump!