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Crumb's PKD.

"The Path of Fog

In despair
l would eat the earth
Tomorrow
The big black dog
Darkens the lamp
Gone is the dark violet with flattened cheekbones
Gone is the idle star of the plains bloated with rain
The bee looks for the needle in the depths of my gaze
Noon
The pupil of my eye bursts on the riverbank
The rainbow of orgasm is reflected on the ceiling
Under your tucked knees my eye
Ossifies
In your oblique sleep
A tin greenery
Catches fire
And it's the entire orbit
That empties in my hand
Why would I not take a comma for a heart
The street is noth1ng more than the masturbation
Of women"

--Joyce Mansour

Black (& white) friday.

"...Yet a few days, my mother,
And thou shalt hear the shouting of the reapers,
And we who sharp the sickle shall ring out
The harvest-home."

--Sydney Yendys, The Roman

"There wasn’t a sentence in which the thinking, somehow made up in accumulated images and incomprehensible metaphors, wasn’t further obscured by verbal inventions and stylistic forms that not once showed the least respect for syntax." (via @dreamsofbeing_)