Embodies a soul eternally living
fed interminably by ethereal exhalation of universal godhead
hydrated by libidinous fluid flow of
lava hot lava so salivary and succulent to
the psychedelic practitioners of
free love and such rites of orgiastic frolic,
a soul giving of karma & vibes
ascending to wavelengths at the apex of the ladder of enlightenment,
beyond mudhoney, To Nirvana, the top rung

Lungs unplagued by all the rage of marijuana
oncogenes unseen,
toked smoke never been
inside unshattered, reflectory eyes of platypi
and ja 3rd eye high on high
knows why,
for it has seen scenes of incomparable cerebral compulsion,
the natural high,
fit to make one cry,
when all the stars are shining
and all the sky is conversing
and all the trees are dancing
and all the ground is touching,
(for) you

The ears, although invisible to naked eyes
adhere to the notes of flotatious, intangible music
and the industrious ear drum even in its incessant knockings
always finds glee in the rocking
the rocking, not of your grandmother’s chair
nor even the recoil of frizzy-long head-bangin’ hair,
but tha rockin’, of Thin Lizzy’s rocker,
tha mothafuckin’ riot of the guitar strings,
tha feel-good phallic fury of rebellious hedonist youth who sing,
sublimely, of arms and The Man,
tha thumpin’ of the bass and tha bangin’ of the drums,
tha beats tha rhythms tha melodies
tha grooves that sooth all maladies,
tha jazz, tha funk, tha symphonies
tha heaven
of all who died at 27
tha hoppin’ tunes of Joplin,
tha lyres set afire by Morrison the Merman
mangy and murderous with a pot belly anew
so few have felt the wrath that is thrown unto the path
less-traveled,
tha unraveled blues, genius, godliness & psychedelia of Jimi,
tha shimmy strumming and eccentric satanic pain of Robert Johnson
tha apathy, grunge-plunge and intuitive mysticism of Kurt Cobain,
tha drumming
of the ear
ingests, enjoys, and relates it all
to the fleeting neurons, the seething brain, the beating heart,
but all the platypus itself can do in the realm of music
due to the unwieldy webs of its cumbersome paws
and its clumsy beak that may only croak,
platypi express their musical excesses
by blowing into a hazy kazoo,
the hazy kazoo
loud and emphatic
but muffled by idiosyncratic modification to the tone,
the platypus masters the manipulation and moans
tunes worshipful of the moon,
the sores of monotreme folklore
and various egg-laying laments:

“kallae, kalloo
mindfuck, mindscrew
twists twat waffles into
a crucifix
its shadow joined by the image of you,
torso stiff as a robot cock
limps limp as bratwurst
godhead gelatinous as oyster
imagination dry as lust in the dust serpent sex
and harrumph horse bone marrow
think yer flyin’ ‘way like a sparrow
don’t notice the walls keep gettin’ narrow
think yer a pumpkin on Halloween
but squash is all you ever been”

Possessing an un-recessing heart of heat
and of love which knows wild, unbridled wonder
idealism ne’er to be turned asunder
and emotion that puts to motion
the visceral landscapes and centrifugal pulls of
the prostate ensemble

though there are many functional bodies
belonging to the myriad species,
many specimens of whom may have souls
and conduct themselves with impassioned reverence for life,
who may take nourishment of air
and draws this vital air, above the world of shadows,
there may be birds who croon with the chirps of beaks and bellows of bills
and those who exercise auditory discretion with varying degrees of ardor,
and a circulatory system, whether open or closed
is essential to any being’s physiology,
but platypus, oh platypus
thou art unique,

for,

Neighboring the heart, a snowflake unequivocally frozen
never molten by the intense heat that crowds never cease use of
to burn those that are not of
the horde, the sheep, the herded
they incinerate the ungirded
the witches of Salem
crucify & nail ‘em
try them then jail them
to the extent society fails them
match expulsion with implosion
intestinally impale them
hang them harangue them
sling them and slang them
stone them disown them
rattle the bones of all such crones
let it be known
that all instances of magic will be condemned tragic
and perpetrators ostracized in quarantine zones
to perpetuate the downsizing of
love,
we pontificate the paralyzing
thereof,
if Tituba coaxes dancing with a tuba
or Thelonnius Monk pounds out piano peculiarities
or Sappho plucks lyric epiphanies,
they will all be banished to the island of Cuba
to live a condemned & damned existence
of resistance to
the American Dream
the capitalism
the jissom,
the orgasmic drooling of the ruling forces that be,
we foresee scuttlebutt socialism and such irrational misconduct
balderdash, drivel twaddle claptrap
surely the elongated phallocentric asp,
reddened by the unremitting, relentless masturbation
of any lonely fallen angel,
will accept these witches
and with an S&M whipcrack make them his bitches
to toil forever in hellfire,
but no, this Calvinist fetishizing
this fear-monging,
not even the whole empire’s hellfire
could melt the lacy lunacy, the heartfelt snowflake
existing genuinely forever in steadfast uniquity.

The uniquity does not stop there,
the eccentricity perseveres
for the platypus has a venomous spur on each hind ankle
capable to kill a compliant, boorishly panting dog
conclude, therefore,
that although the platypus has a peaceful nature
feeding, as a pseudo-carnivore, on larvae of insects,
eggs of frogs and fish
bivalve mollusks and freshwater shrimp,
it can, and will, and has a right to
protect itself and its integrity
by inflicting excruciating pain and agonizing injury
upon any reign that intercedes
the autonomy that all individualists need,
and a certain baleful J Edgar Hoover,
the behoover of swindled aborigines
makes report of contrived mythology
to explain this poison’s presence;
he issues reports of ancient duck colonies
fearing the wrath of a devilish water rat,
and one of these gawky birds
happened to stumble downstream one fine morn
into the abode of the lonely misogynist,
the rapist armed with a sharp red trident of a spear,
and was subjected to his antisocial, repressed rancor
as he forced fornication upon the spawn of Aries in a quacking, feather-flapping frenzy,
and the results of the rape
were the first two incestual platypi;
is this Aesop’s Fables? Cains and Abels?
No, this is a lie!
Th’ infernal serpent J Edgar Hoover, in his sleepless rage
would have you believe that platypi are the spawn of Satan,
the perpetual opponent and sworn enemy of his beloved Calvinist Christianity
in the eternal arm-wrestling match that is evangelism
that they are a product of incestual relations
and he, the prudent Calvinist would have you doubt
the logic of evolution,
the reptilian origin of this monotrematic revolution,
just because he bribed with his capitalist idolatry
a handful of corrupt tribe leaders of the aborigines
who used to refer reverently to
the beloved Mallangong, Tambreet or Boonaburra
to counterfeit a brand new, fabricated mythology
he justifies the persecution of platypi,
and I tell you, convicted Muse as my basis,
that this is a lie! And Hoover’s a fascist!

The platypus has marvelous vision,
for it eats crunchy carrot sticks with great frequence
and does not insert jagged contact lenses into its eyes each morning,
but it cannot exercise this sense while underwater
for, like a child just learning to swim,
it shuts its eyes despite the purity of compounded hydrogen and oxygen,
and had it nimble fingers, it would hold its nose
and had had it goggles, it would don them spiffily
but until then, it must have a means to forage its hunger away
and so it has countless electrosensitive pores upon its rubbery bill,
which detect electrical currents generated by the slightest muscular motion;
some humans, who are not content with five senses
speak of a sixth sense, a premonition or supernatural intuition;
the platypus, has that sense, and more
it can even feel the electric field
of water particles evading inanimate objects,
that’s right, it can feel
the wavelength
the almighty touch
the voice of god,
it needs no Metatron to inform it of right and wrong,
of spiritual love and karma,
it needs not have faith;
it knows

The platypus has a common opening for the reproductive and digestive systems,
it fucks like it shits, it shits like it fucks
and lo does the platypus copulate!
with slimy amphibian erotic sleaze
hairy testostoronal mammalian zeal
and the soulful devotion of a love struck duck,
and lo does the platypus defecate!
steamy turds slide with unctuous delight
and take precise ceramic form that no potter could have coaxed,
emitting a zesty aroma conducive to coprophagy,
O what a hole!
an assiduous multi-tasker,
crap and copulation all at once,
and what’s more
is the eggs,
the greatest controversy in the history of the institution of taxonomy,
the cause for chin-rubbing, beard-plucking, head-scratching
for all scholars of biology and Latin/Greek root name derivation,
the female platypus releases a peculiar grin of sagely yin
and, despite its fuzzy hide and misguided mammalian pride,
it recalls being the first to evolve, establishing a sub-culture
that was later gentrified by mainstream, Disney atrocities
your rabbits and deer, the gerbils of Richard Gere’s one-dimensional anal cavity
your palatable pets, the cats and dogs
exploited for their simple minds and fuzzy features,
these repulsively cute creatures are a disgrace to the ideals
of dignity, freedom and nonconformity that the Mammalian order was founded upon,
and despite its protracted, densely-proteined mammaries,
the platypus retains ancestral memories
of reptilian splendor, sun-drenched fantasy, utopian dinotopia,
and releases egg after egg after egg
from between it’s hind legs,
clawed for purposes of burrowing
while the fore-legs are webbed for paddling,
and no rattling could ever so jar the unsmoked, lucid recollection
of the persecution,
the near-executions
executed by closeted Hoover,
who could not tolerate brazen uniquity and open nonconformity

Heaven,
heaven is a place
where nothing
nothing ever happens,
short of St. Peter the Talking Head burning down the house over sins of pleasure
committed by those that the world is freshly bereft of,
and while family, friends and co-workers may grieve,
wrinkly, haloed St. Peter seethes,
as if a man who enjoyed to dance
is a veritable psycho killer;
puritanical tyrant John Calvin is the supreme ruler of heaven,
ever since God was banished upon the discovery of her gender
and raped savagely by abstinent puritan henchmen
with reckless vengeance and longing
tied hand to foot in leather rope and shimmying chains
and tossed trivially into baleful Hoover’s closet
for her atrocious transgression and deceit
that only one as loving as herself could forgive,
he, sitting as the ever prudent usurper upon a white-washed high chair
is force-fed by husky farm girls w/ chiming cow bells ‘round their necks
strained peas toiled for by assiduous slaves whipped
by prudent ex-preachers who release their pent-up kinky aggression
in the name of diligence and common excellence;
serpentine Hoover, before the revolution,
was heaven’s sole attorney general,
he could be see in white linen suits
with silver handkerchiefs in the breast pockets
drinking a quart of acidophilus milk at breakfast
and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette of relaxation afterwards
before cracking down on drug dealers and such outright breaches of morality
and later planting the pirated drugs on the Abbie Hoffmans of the world
and force-feeding them to the Huey Newtons,
but while in heaven he needed have no such worries for the ascended society,
for one breath of the ethereal air
rendered a laughing gas rocky mountain high to all virginal inhabitants,
there was no desire to snort itchy powder or thrust jagged needles into one’s veins,
they had all the mind-alteration they wanted
and their minds were unfailingly in an impressionable state
when Hoover issued decrees of biblical jurisprudence:
“This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco
this ain’t no fooling around
no time for dancing, or lovey dovey,
I ain’t got time for that now”

Just as soon as Calvin’s Reformation was cemented as heaven’s regime,
on new years’ day of 1895
sweet, orgasmic Jesus returned from 100 years absence
under the supervision of timelessly levitating zen monks
partaking in blissful meditation and transcendent fellatio
and abstinence from all food, drink and means of sustenance
besides heavenly hot pockets
in order to prove that man does not live by bread alone,
but by microwaved pepperoni & mozzarella cheese as well,
and when he returned to find his mother
locked in a closet of pure insanity
singing catchy tunes composed of unfortunate incidences mistaken for irony
and of her long withheld unrequited love for Jesus’ supposed father
who abandoned her before Jesus emerged from the mortal womb of Mary,
and he unleashed a Sidd Finch thunderbolt of concentrated lung-gom-pa
which shattered the puritanical tyrant’s bony frame on impact
and melted his skin into puddles of goo,
glowing in the dark and sticky as glue
so as to adhere to ambitious feet
and halt the ascension of any man
who, by religion, science, or any such lustful occult
would attempt to play god and invoke addictive power,
while serpentine Hoover,
having a thicker frame ever since the advent of spasmodic stomach ulcers
remains intact, and must be banished
and he falls from heaven under the big toe of Jesus’ sandaled foot,
but does not drop all the way to hell
for shaggy Jesus is more compassionate than haloed Peter
and he is instead dropped into an equitable hell,
the capital of the capital of capitalism,
Washington DC, USA,
a fortunate son
to the chronically depressed Dickerson Naylor Hoover
and Annie Marie Scheitlin Hoover, his beloved mother and soul mate
he is born,
made to wave the flag
ooh that red white and blue
and when the band plays hail to the chief
ooh they point the cannon at you
and all Hoover, the overdeveloped fetus, can say is:
“Air… air
hit me in the face
air… air
it can break your heart”