Invalid Arguments of Gonadal f(x)

You're like a messiah, pal
Little kingdoms in your chest
I told you we'd make it, on for another
I told you we'd make it, on for all night (Put on all our best)

I strain against you, this perfect violet weight, all gone in pallor, caught up in the orange-dew-dropped lamps curving for a black-tar tongue of pooling litter, and such rush begets another whim: to run flat out across the bland-square hedges and fallow, reedy lands, each mire a miracle of aggravation, a causeway to uncoupling this swollen link and lymph, an easing of the passing time to heady rain cloud language of unbearable levity. Joy in itself is a joke, though death is a heartier guffaw, a faux end and drop leaving sigils to tell the bedtime tales and tie our dreams on end to end to end. What a ladder we'll all build. What an uncanny harmonic device like the throat-thoughtfully blown blues in the deep green ring of the night, the lulling horn-howled and heavy-souled blanket. Pagan aren't you? Heating the soft earth between your creased and folded fingers, healing whatever part it is that sobs against the browning fields of crowned wheat, and all-outward wave the broad flaxen heads ululatus ulu ulu undu ululating shifting stalks in slow-sad chatter sounding out to the wind the rusty nature of their destinies. Ulu ulu undulations, cathartic fences catching the final beat. The vacant thrombosis gorging a thin blue-black bead of soil, still meaning to lift off the sullen strand of wordless conversation, just vilifying itself, growing aged and sick with the yellow-green hue frozen in tufts of gingerly falling leaves waiting for the curse of convection to let them soar, sucking them down with turbulent ends. So this is the christian fruit you brought, the godly good-natured, death-bound and despaired from conception, all its ears brimming and picked upon, singing with tasseled pollen ripped into currents you would like to carry off by hand. Some voice we've left to, an oratory silence and finger tracing word, sketching our biographies from crumbled temples and impish derision. Such is tradition, this purple-pale midnight Europa.