iam alone with my electricity (4)

a gaggle of wild dogs bark the swirling horizon, surprising even our gouge at the symphony's throat: lunar tresses boil amidst all the apathetic faces my chosen prophet wears to the golden ball: dada horses with only the law to guide them into the astonished triune of decay, any source of sound not writhing its recognition of genuine otherness: the circular voice indulges me with my green torrent of feet already dead drunk, but pure on other worlds