Professor Slaughter’s Cell in the Land of Luz

THOSE BIRDLIKE TORTURERS IN MOON ELEVATORS, DEAD

TREES, THE LABIAL

EAR FALLEN TO THE GROUND, BELLOWS FOR BLOWING PEPPER,

HAT OF THE BLACK ROSE, DICE

MADE OF WATER, AN EXECUTIONER’S ORCHARD–

LADDER OF QUICK DEPOSITION, GALL

ON A SPONGE, SPONGE ON A STICK, AN ARMPIT

WITH A PEARLY BLUE GALAXY WITH THE REVERSED

LETTER OF LEAD IN ITS STARGATE, BLIND MULES, A DECAPITATED

BRIMLESS HAT OR FEZ OF THE POSTERIOR CINGULATE, NAKED

CARDINALS SWIMMING IN A CUP, A FRENCH COFFEE-PRESS FULL

OF BLOOD AND URINE, AND JEROME

WITH A HOSE IN HIS ASS. And she is just sitting there

riding her stationless bike from Oz

to Luz. On a dime, friend,

I’m just telling you we’re worse than dogs, worse

than kittens even. I can’t take it much longer.

Did you see that bullshit

they’re selling about Cerne?

They’ll say anything to keep pouring concrete, in reprise,

not to mention a nuclear reactor dedicated

to that lamebrain Higgs’s extinct bison. GOT

TO WATCH THE KID MOW THE LAWN. CHECK

YOU LATER. THAT FUCKER— BOSCH

WAS JUST A GUY WHO PHOTOGRAPHS

THE DEAD FOETUS TO BE PASSED AS A HANDBILL

TO A PREGNANT TEENAGER WHO DECLINES THE PROCEDURE

AND RETURNS TO HER FATHER’S GARAGE

WHERE IN THE CADILLAC’S BLUE EXHAUST

SHE SINGS A SONG HER DEAD GRANDMOTHER

taught her when she was nine. Sure, BUD,

EVERYTHING’S FINE.

I’M LOSING IT, YOU KNOW?

LOOK AT THAT ALTARPIECE OF SAINT JEROME. LOOK AT

THE FLESH OF THE MARTYRED JESUS. LOOK

AT THE PILGRIM IN A STARFIELD

THAT IS A CLEAR COFFEE-PRESS

FROM SOME SALE AT STARBUCKS. HIS PATIENCE? PERSPECTIVE?

ALL OF IT ACCURATE, PERSPECTIVE AND CIRCUMSTANCE,

THAT BRILLIANT FUCK—BOSCH.

ROOT-CUT, FLABBERGASTED, ACTUAL! JESUS, BOSS,

IT’S THE BIG PICTURE, ISN’T IT?