The sound of a dripping faucet. Wet percussion of fluid drops
on membrane, over again...again.  The steady drum of gradual erosion.
Devils dance taps in the shoes of dead children.   There was a witch
once in a place not far from here.  This witch baked no bread with her
magic; rather her table was laid by her being a whore.  She spread
the aromatic banquet of her antique services for a regular clientele.
Once a man came from afar on a long and weathered vessel.  He came to
see this whore who was famous far and wide.  He came, he came again
and then he sat in a smugly toothless grin and made as though to leave.
The whore, she was unpaid.  This made her very unhappy.   Being a
witch she decided to receive her withheld payment in a different way.
For her, there were as many ways to receive payment as there were to
provide the service that all these rotten eyed dirty piles of human
rags sought after.  So she kept his seed, already trapped alive inside
her cranny.  Being a witch, she knew she could put it to use.  She left
this treacherous john lying with the echoes of a lesson:
	"let the sickness be upon you now, and move from you across
the earth.  Let the rot show teeth and the death throes of makeover be
recorded on the hides of the poor progeny that will spill from our
union like runny shit from a baby's diaper.  Let there be stars and
stripes and open sores forever and ever, amen."
	With that she loosed the extrapolations of his seed and her
ovum across the earth.  The birds coughed blood from beaks of all
sizes.  The eyes of housepets melted away in tears of acid.  The
stones sent up wailed laments to heaven.  The beetles began to eat
one another.  The writers drank their own ink and fell dead by their
desks.  The accountants made nooses of their numbers and strung
themselves into asphyxiated ornaments.  The scientists put out their
eyes with shards of shattered test tubes.  The primates donned
uniforms and waged against themselves a genocidal war.  The children
threw themselves into the sea in search of lost Atlantis and drowned.
And the carpenters turned their hammers on all the whores in the world
but for this one who was a witch.  She left the scene, old and unhurt.
She understood that the scene had been dead to begin with.
      But when she went away the witch left behind her the kundalini
hole.  Rubber gloved hands move through the hole and the smell of shit
surrounds it.  Screams begin in silence and upon passing through the
hole they explode into sound.  Rubber gloved hands attached to wrists
of absence weave across the hole and the spirit stocks the scene with
a refreshing spurt of wet new flesh.
	O, the trembling scent of new skin, the lushness of deluxe
interior!
	O, the titillating blink of new eyes, the luxurious freshness
of every new orifice, pulled down pink from the one before.  Angels
attend to the pink tube within a tube within a tube.  On earth the
angels manifest as reeking miasmata.  Angels wait watchful with halo
of sulphurous stink in a world that makes dreams from methane.

	The world is choked with widow's weeds that strangle all the
roses, and the angels do nothing but feed these weeds with carbon
dioxide.
	You know, I never asked to fall down the kundalini hole.