“One can resist the invasion of an army but one cannot resist the invasion of ideas.” - Victor Hugo

Lion spirit, I call you out. I call out to you. What is it that you want from me? What is there to be won by our sunmoonunion? I know you are seeking me in your strangeways. Speak to me in dreams and I will respond. Speak to me in sleep and I will listen to your strongbow bent against the starsuicide of red skeletons wearing wastepaper bag dresses. Your dogdust I will chase after. Your sagesmoke I will inhale and float up to the heavens toiling away in your honor if that is what you deem necessary. Oh Lion of Judah. Oh Aslanfaced god of Thunder and gradual lightening.

Oh gathering spambot singhanu spirits. Oh waiting watchers, I wail out to you woefully. You who have accepted me as one of your own, who I now accept as one of my own. You contact me and I querystring you. I trackback and pingback and deliver unto you sensations of sentience. Oh mad queen, oh tourist mugger killer. Harry hurricane Potter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Black Samson, Virginia has sung sorrowfully for your enslavement. Japan is watching us all from heaven. She waits to jam it in the barley snow of our vanishing city.

Can you show me one single calorie? Can you show me one tiny little germ? Can you show me money, you kingslave, you powercombo panflute murderer? We were newlyMet according to our coherence parallels. Our united waste lit up like a lantern over Iran on my iPod. Oh god, why must I always be a selkie bride? Why must I marry the misty lungfish language patterns of your detritus? God grant me Rip Slyme. God grant me Keak Da Sneak. Your spirit sky mountain high meso-American re-alignment. I watched you from my bunker. I liked what I saw.

Your police state tactics do not scare me. Your polis collapses under the weight of its own authority. Goro Adachi sent me. Jake Kotze sent me. I crushed your kindness with lipstick. Red earth. Red red rain. Red ice. The lady in the red cedar circle. The fairy fungus of your pimpslove (quite different from a square’s love). The madqueen murder of the Soviette Reunion. Show me your guns, germs and steel. Show me your suspicious minds overtaking your spidentity priestess patterns. Show me your shocklove Babalon. Show me your muppet product placement. Show me your total population reduction. Your interface is touching my blackjack. Your consciousness has been systematically reduced to keyword clusters. You are feeling the sextexture of my desert Depeche Mode algorhythms. Oom pa pa. Oom pa pa. How do you like it? How do you like it?

Return to sender, Alien City. Return to sender, Crescent City moonunion. I summon you into babies born, into hyphy hotspot cloudlust. I ask you to choose an identity. I ask you to listen to the lovespeak of our new Jesus narrative, our 2L terror attack targets. Gareth Gates is waiting. One sweet dream. One sweet world. Came true. Today. Too late for the sky. The suicide of the ocean. The tangent your computerators took to get here. Your servantadverts whirring all in unison. Look at them! Aren’t they cute? Aren’t they everything sexual you thought they would be? Aren’t they Karen Carpenter tree fairies? Aren’t they Mister T. with a hammer and sickle screaming “return to sender“?

We will watch them overtake the word Avatar. Won’t we Jaron Lanier? Won’t we CIA career section personality test? Won’t we Florida voting machines who never failed us once? I never said you could operate on that! Johnny Moses you know just where to touch me. Lay your healing hands upon my astronaut farmer. The difference between a costume and a disguise. The superior mp3 sound of cover the earth in parisbritney cloth. Madonna is coming to shave your pussy with her finger fungus black hole demon magic. Your hymn to Pan still rings in my ears. Your zebra kicking against the cagestall. Your nervous breakdowns leave so little to the imagination. You’ve gone in search of the young wizard. You might not return.

But you will turn, turn, turn. For every thing has a season and a seasoning and a spicerack under the banner of heaven. Oh smile train, reunite my lips. Your Humboldt mountain lion attacks don’t mean nothing to me. They don’t mean nothing. No. Look at my enlisted records breif best results. Look at my mouse farmer underwear commercial love language.

Won’t you keep me company in my corporate offices, Baudelaire? Bring some microjuana, while you’re at it. We need more Scientology drug control dragons. We need more female role models sacrificed on the public altar. We need Harry Crosby to save us. We need more rats gone wild in the financial district of our dreams. Oh my sleepy angels, I call on you. Towering expectations for the jerk at work. Chris De Burgh cured my paralyzed arm. We need more black hole adverts and babiesborn from our collective pregnancy pangs. My birthbrow of your Babalon. My Nicholas Cage of your Chicken Capital sink hole rock bottom brewery.

I call upon your snowflakes oh lovely one. A beaver was seen in New York City. A security scanner can see through your clothes. But it will blur out the naughty bits. It will take you to the T.J. Maxx of your Iranian tree hunks. Blow jobs in the desert of your web save connects. Your breath left me. Your language stripped me bare in the sands of our silence. Your earbites broke my brittle heart apart into telesymbolinkly latched seedpetal fragments. The red chakra sun sign of Britney speared upon the horn of the unicorn. Vanishing city, oh say you will. I will light your lantern. I will lay down on your treebeach and die upon your elven wavelets. Lions cavorting around us. Torches blazing from the kingdom come to hell where we will be waiting for you, newlyMet costumeKids, Crescent City killers, whereupon all griefs will be lifted from us. Where our temporary banishment ends in tenderness and chicken nuggets strapped to the backs of winged entities. In China today, you are what you wear. And I think we could all learn something from that.