The ovaries of the galaxy shine. Blackened supernova, muddy and heavy.
Black oxygen and magnetic meat; speedy Ohms per/volt.
Any art is an art of death; of death, understood like a Velazquez over an abyss of vaginal flux and machines.
The titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
How?
Look, love: impossible angels are coming to our Earth to start the Apocalypse: I salute your hips and your cunt.
Look, love: Canopus shines more tonight; the semen angels will fight against vampire gauchos: your tits are remarkable.
Sometimes I would like to hate you, especially on that Saxon day, Valentine, don't know its actual name.
The ovaries of the galaxy are your ovaries too, you: blonde secretary in miniskirt: who cares if the world is ending, let's go fuck under the desk.
Any art is an art of life; of life, understood like a frozen Picasso in the Manchurian prairies, like Aristotle in Finland.
I dreamed a strange nightmare, I dreamed that I woke up in the Americas, and you were naked. Your navel was the Sun, and your tits were our amorous Moons at night.
The wind was our son, and he was raised among the coyotes.
How?
He was the titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
...As the ovaries of the galaxy shine...
