I am the first man out in the foliage when the full moon’s twin illuminates her heart-piercing cry for release.

She slashes her sleek thighs with a blue glass shard found in a manger.

Only my tongue’s instantaneous healing properties stays her staggering beauty’s premature demise.

Her crown of thorns sexes roseblood tears from her tortured temples of time.

Again my tongue of cold fire heals.

For a moment, at least, her precious beauty finds respite from its torrential torments.

The faux lycanthropic throat-ripper has deferred to the guardian angel on this rare occasion of tortured radiance rescued from oblivion.

Only later will I fist her wet gratitude.

The wilding reel recalls the orgone naked lunch boxes of love.

And the slo-raging agon of the unbeings vs. the Unborn.

The unbeings are the addled crackpot masses of believers. I will be reasonable, even appealing in other walks of life – or not – but please let me be seethingly insane at core on the issue of existential truth is the battle cry of violently snoozing newzworld.

Bluntly, offended Christians and Muslims are the most offensive piles of psychic excrement on the planet. Whatever buzz came down the pike is not YOUR buzz till you throw the fucking dusty books away and act, respond in the inherently pure moment with something like a spontaneous dance -- like Desert Daddios and Sufis.

Ditto foaming believers of every ilk. God is the absence of sanctimonious puking in the name of dissociative abstraction. Just look behind the screen.

The Unborn is adamantine awareness devoid of ornamental claptrap.

>>>

The knuckle-dragging thugwhumps of the apocalypse sniff wet fear on the wind. But she is enfolded in my arms’ secret hiding place.

I venture out after the old ultraviolence – tho’ partial to avenging angel antics in salvation’s afterglow.

What’s a wilding without a cinematic bloodbath?

Insert montage of Peckinpah’s rejuvenated corpse exploding slo-mo at ratings board bash.

I’m ready for mega-testosteroni vent, but the bad boyz are convulsing on rain-slicked streets from random neurological disorders.

>>>

My brain’s a buzzsaw cyclone calm as danger.

Everywhere the priests thump the dead books, salacious as sawdust for sheep baaahs on Sunday.

Because you fear God you hide in the bowels of zombification, the metaphysical death throes of attenuated egoity.

Because you fear Existence, the world collapses into compartmentalized psychosis, dulled by the media rain and reign of error.

Then there’re the cheerleaders for change with poodle poop on their Birkenstocks. They mean well. The road to hell is paved with. Traditional or new age, the simulacral reigns.

My wilding range is spoiled by the redundancy of five hundred miles of intestinal disembowelment.

Well there’s still the hottie-in-distress. She sleeps near my lair’s largest longest

faux stalagmite, as if reassured by its readiness.

Random multitudinous jugulars cry out to me telepathically, mind voxes foxy with full moon delirium. Jugglers pulsing jugulars are especially lively.

The maps to these territories are drawn in tributaries of blood.

Magic, Myth, Mind, and Void.

King Crimson guitars boning Scarlett Johannson during menses in Dracula’s castle.

Or the desperately tranquilized clone of her lineage.

Sobs and howls escape her vortical larynx.

Only my big cock’s descent into the maelstrom of her velvet throat calms and quiets her tortured soul.

Mega creambursts in her hungry throat soothe the purring cool kitty cumming on cue. When she chokes, it’s like her throat cums too. Incredible throat milking cock. Pure genius.

Blessed by neologism she snoozes.

Bane Savage aka Beat Germane aka Wilding Reel.

Street nut, crime scribe, libidinous trickster – wolf of weir.

The water pouring from the tap into the tub forms metallic syllables of impossibly complex instruction, yet a clarion call of intermolecular solidarity of all interdimensional life in one basic – o what the fuck – kind of bashing great leap forward, beyond, inclusive.

Wow won’t folks get excited when they hear the kosmic messages of tapwater singing, of bathwater ringing?

Some of those folks might even be quasi-elected officials with H2O mindscreens.

I noted somewhere in the furrows of deep quotation the intriguing structure of a water molecule: pentagonal.

Mayhaps Pentagonal war machine appropriations will run the course of a particularly lethal buggy whip industry, to be subsumed in the scientific and spiritual contemplation of water.

Without which, biological life would cease.

The wildings are always in the wilderness where the waters of life burst upward from underground springs.

Contemplating the brine of the brain of this body.

Cap twists off for interdim joy/hell rides.

Goddess’ classiest convulsing, volcanically gushing vulva is my favorite launching pad.

Sophia slumbers safe in psi symbiosis.

Her morning bath tap will inform her molecules of good tidings, metallic whispers of interdim wonder.

Smoke comes out the ears from attempts to translate faucet archangel chants into Anglo-Cyberian.

But even as she sleeps peacefully, I gently touch her brow and am transported to what was a previous life together, yes even before my ongoing 500-yr. anomaly. Prehistoric, when the very earth shuddered ultima proto-rock.

I ravished my soulmate on the lip of ancient Volcano X, boiling active in emergent lava flow of fucking molecular ecstasy. Afterward, my slave had made her master slave to her hot primal vortical orifices. Sleek raw paroxysms – libido sentiendi, libido sciendi, libido dominandi all at once. But well before such concepts could be formed, archaic in the magic of sex possession.

Meaning pleasure, revelation, power, were all seized at once, even shared in the ironic dialectic of primal Dom/sub.

No man who lustfully loves woman can destroy life casually, because even the rawest darkest edges of desire turn life-affirmative. So it is the romantic paradox of ravishment that surfaced, not mere cold criminality unto homicide.

Everybody knows it’s withered desire that threatens the world with nuclear grinning skulls.

Lovers always already rule the world, regardless. And are closer to natural justice.

Lovers whose desires cross multiple domains, engaged in a warp and weft of wisdom.

Crazy wisdom wildersouls.

Wilding reel.

© 2007 Peace Wilson