Vomit of the Star Eater

He felt a shooting star

make a pass at his mind,

then an elevator-snowman rose up his pneumatic spine.

This sensation split him,

dividing him in half

and ripped apart the spasmic instrument

that makes us cry and laugh.

One half of him straddled the comedy

and rocked upon its back,

while playfully tying the other half onto the tragic

railroad

track.

So now he's strung out on being a hunger-freak

just like all the starnivorous martyrs,

smearing their phosphorescent vomit as graffiti

on the darkness.

Now he's locked in a light-speed-prism

and the breaks have lost their juice,

so the rainbow of ideas at the top is falling loose.

So it's haling pearls of wisdom,

raining sacramental wine,

but the heavenly fruit turns to scarlet mud

in the troughs of

human

swine

Shanghaied by the inner crowd

he wakes up as a rebel,

getting orders from the spectrum of those flashing, ghastly signals

from his pyramid of crystal

frozen from the sweat of man,

which he keeps parked out in orbit where it won't do the harm it can.

With its razor-sharpened edges

our so-called mental health it could cut,

making french fries of our illusions in its blasting

furnace

guts.

and then we'd all turn out to be hunger-freaks

just like all the starnivorous martyrs,

smearing our phosphorescent vomit as graffiti

on the darkness.