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We ran across new haggered highways,

We ran from the invisible clutches of time that blows unbreakable bubbles, expanding into
impenetrable stoneheads, stiffling and stiffening, rusting and rustling, dying and dead
within tombs of these infected skulls, their own environment-friendly shite resting, decomposing,
consumed by bark chips and tiger skin, worried sick about methane, carbon dioxide
and forgetting their own souls- to revolt, to give, to do something, against something, for something, to do anything
and do nothing, but yet donate to Africa or
the tanned infant nibbling on the wrinkled nipple of the tired 15-year Indian, for she cries elsewhere, somewhere- anywhere
maybe the white lions need them, or the peacocks, the snakes or dogs, if nothing else, the roaches;

So we ran, unsaved, sun-tanned and pushed by the static electricity of the wind,
exploding into cachinations with every headline we read, your laughter wind-burnt and racing mine..
while they skimpered to save another tax dollar, whimpering about the children in Haiti
or the government, sex, terrorism, peace, war, love, treaties and documents in which they had no say, but they would
anyway, anyhow- the people, afterall, aren't they?

We ran from the intellectuals, oh yes we did,
they were the funniest, indeed, yet barriers against stupidity are crumbling, lost, in this age
it is no longer scarce, an occasional treat as it used to be,
the ratios are increasing on the wronger sides, and critics are forgetting
So don't be technical, they told us, just play along, just feel
The intellectuals, oh the sweet intellectuals
without reason, without logic, without meaning or beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond meaning
glaring into the abyss, as it glares into them.

So we ran, the celestial orbs breathing into our faces, thorns embracing our skin and
rags wiping the face of earth- our stolas and denims, newspaper hats and torn high school jerseys, yet warm
we smirked at the covers of Vogue, where jane faces pixel-painted and photoshopped
lay beautiful and enviable- the perfect bodies, the perfect teeth and eyelashes that hovered in inches
exasperated and quivering, posing in the freshbeds of Switzerland with snippets of cloth,
hanging pettily, sloppily, unnecessarily.

We ran from the artists, their twisted dreadlocks rising like blue-ringed octopuses, searching for originality
in histroy books and temples, as the mucus from their celaphalod dendroids spilled upon an innocent canvas
manipulating its earthly pores to images vague and meaningless, lines and angles, twisted penises and triangular breasts
anuses scented with acrylic diarrhea- the sulphides swirling through their yet unpicked nostrils
where last night's joint still lingers-- magically-- their flowing arms squirting scared blank ink, mindlessly
forming personifications of the principles of nothingness, contemplating chasm, after chasm, after chasm
until their potheads explode with the sheer beauty of it, and the newsboy caps fly through the air where voices declare
"What art! What art! What art!"

So we ran, asking you, asking me 'What art? What art? What art?'- gasping in oblivious hirality
and swimming in our bloated universe of perfection, pointing and bursting at the captured ordor of those hues,
clawing the sky and stealing its marine to wash our irises, away from the diseased dreary galleries
we're sprinkling the stars into each others eyes, and watching them float drunked and drowsy
the flickers of helium multiplying further, until we burn down those obnoxious frames, the carved wood
and synthetic skin of tribal thought, tribal skill, hung shamelessly next to Fragonard;

We ran from the engineers, yes those harmless nerds! The prisoners of paper and blotted ink
their desks still stagnant and work hours clocked, tools neatly hung in those left-shirt pockets
and dog tags, proud and gleaming- shone on our skin like sharpened knives,
We knew they're helpless- their calculations faltered, and mathematics was never needed,
engines were never the question, and metals naked and raw would never grease their padded fingerbones
their oiled and patted hairlines, were never to be infected with the undressed fragrance of kerosene, or gasoline
their ear-wax never to quiver to symphony of crashing valves, the roar of a young machine or the death-waking cough of the old and tired-
were to be yonder roars, passing in crosstown traffic with trumpets and sirens, as routine, not ritual...
yet engineers they were, they said, yet engineers, they were to be called

So we ran, broken-hearted and confused, their carved nibs and dog tags tearing through our heartstrings in haphazzard geometery
such that we suffered, wondering, wondering why, wondering how and what for, crawling off-road for protection
for treatment, we lay on fresh mud and watched the mechanics of swift zephyr sway the crooked blades of grass
the passing hum of wheels and throbbing pistons kissing our ear-sheaths, their wing-touched growls soaring into our souls as
I saw your nostrils inflate with the fumes of moist Earth, your chest rising under the weight of my temple,
and lips smiling at the ignorance of pain.

We ran then, from the totalitarian-democrat and the democratic-totalitarian, the conservative-liberal and the liberal-conservative
the communist-capitalist, the moneyed Marxist, the capitalist-communist, the autocratic anarchist and the anarchist-autocrat
The radical reactionary, the forgotten monarchists, the abating aristocrat, the thinking theocrat, the calculated demarchist, the divided despot,
the underling dictator, the forgiving-fascist and fascist-forgiving, the disinterested nationalists, the interested nationalists
the public, the people- the careening, fluctuating cloud of the crowds, swooping and rising with the flicker of sentiment,
the spark of abuse, the cartoon of the undead, mercury readings or dying polar bears and killer fleas-
the disintegrating hypothetic mass of the masses, pulsing with nitroglycerin and radioactive machineheads
convulsing around, contorting for, and contracting with the notions and motions of every tiny, precious-little pool of heartbeats
and wasted neurons, finding guidelines in infrared beams, in public opinion and anonymous forums, finding hints to profit
to trends and through statistics, drawing the charts of organized societies.

So we ran, twirling and buzzing past these oxymorons, the chaos of organization tasting the dirt scraped off our propelling heels,
the folds of your palm-skin entwixed and grazing against the gusty chinooks that tumbled in Voodoo circles, spirals
of sound, and smell and sight, springing and spraying those musks so tantalising... arrastre arrastre
into this tango of our senses, yes all six of them, flying and floating, breaking into boleos and jazz kicks
sauntering on homebred concertos, with ringing violin screams and circumvoluted guitar notes exploding
into tripple pirouettes and needle turns, changing foot on odd staccatos
and falling, and falling, and falling, into the ghost of truth;

We ran from the man-made Gods & the God-made men-
their throwaway zones of polyceaphalic serpents- confessions, grieviances, hopes, whims and greeds
impregnated, twins and triplets in torpid wombs--broiled serendipities, wriggling lunacies and stillborn eggs, anonymous-nonymous
sugar-coated and biblized, heavenized to be of Earth, star-brushed and God-tickled
in Churches, by Churches.. where light crawls through crooked brass wroughts, streaming upon the ghosts of an unhappened past,
the folded skeleton knuckles of Prophets, of saints- where Peace Should be Upon Them- in grime tainted, gold-sheeted pools
of their own powdered flesh, the stench of the centuries stale and sprouting through invisible eyelids, fallen ear-drums
hollow now, as words they once- if once- had said;
Oh, but they cry, they still cry! The young, the restless- the altars are mad with their howls, their shrieks, their cries, their cries..
the candles lit in rotting despair, lighting the pained face of man as one only hope-- the slain face of God,
the helpless Lord, the dying, the dead-- yet the prayers they scream and the shrines are wild, they burn
for tomorrow, so tomorrow, when tomorrow, then tomorrow, if tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..

So we ran today, for today, because today, is today,
hitchiking upon the cyan breeze and creeping over canopies, slamming into the arms of sunlight
chortling and roaring, your acid laughter floating in lazy sparks, on sleeping horizons,
around shied corners- finding something brilliant, something worthwhile, something new- at every turn-
there was me, there was you.