I dream the delerious dreams of vast academic harems

composed of lesbo seismologists, who view their cold nakedness with

mute dispassion,


of a quest for a sex change so that

I could have my mutilated remains and genital fissures gnawed on

by entire subsystems of hungry lesbo seismologists on pacific h-bomb

atolls and gamma dripping lagoons with glowing tuna and shimmering

deuteride fireballs,


to flee into palm groves to drink to a stupor, buggering

wild dogs, delerious from thermonuclear shock and blindness, in a salty

fog of radioactivity, in dusty trenches illuminated by the primal

flash of galaxies and cosmos ringing with the romantic utterances

of floating point calculated lesbo seismologists,


from the riddling of fissile ground shock, to fuse the

naked flesh with the hairless she-man in tee shirt and glasses as

she mistakes me for a salamander in the early morning darkness and

takes me into her recesses as a mistakenly horny lesbo seismologist,


above the mastectomized craters strewn with dremmel scars

which hide in the cotton tents of pre-teen bras and jc penney

boxers, threatened unto emasculation by a scrotal tazer, quivering

orgasmically off the end of the richter scale into the perpetual

pessimism and negativity that is the incoherent lesbo seismologist,


for the lesbo seismologist, my little sweet geological lolita

who i spy upon and love and lick and stroke as i gag and disintegrate

and fall limp into complete oblivion, my beloved lesbo seismologist,


i watch you, peering through the glazed shower door as you

mount a large brecciated onyx dildo and hammer it with a little pick,

painting yourself with mascara as it runs in streaks into the drain,

and dream of buxom readheads and rodents tickling you with their

little whiskers and tails,


to make a mug of coffee in the repro room and go before the

public, to fly into the vast empty doorway of time and let the lipstick

melt upon the dashboard and crawl on searing silicated channels of

hardened magma to search back into geologic time for evidence of

female trilobites in ancient cunnilingus,


i have read your dissertation and heard you slice your aureolas

making little paper cuts and wishing you had lactation, dripping little

drops of blood into dixie cups and fondling little statues of the

virgin mary and of the druid goddess of fertility, to rend in an

endless orbit of foreshocks and fleeing foreskins and fade into the

procession of the sensless damned, wandering in incredulity, dazed

among piles of concrete rubble...