The Synapse Of Pleasure And Pain

We go out looking for mushrooms.
I know the end of the rainbow
is eroticism repressed into sexuality.
One end. Sliding up and down
the primary colors of the spine lovelier
than a honey-pot of gold. Freud
and Plato should hide their heads
from comic poets. The guillotine
is a mouth chewing food.
These mushrooms will take you to Poland,
Siberia, and a tundra of extra-terrestial
trolls. I fed one to my rowing machine in the kitchen
and it jumped into the Strait of San Juan de Fuca.
Made me leap into an image of Don Juan
fucking three fathoms down in a strait jacket.
Schools of saints transported by schools of fish.
Back to shamans. They wear coats of many colors,
camouflage into stones. If a train comes,
they feed it to Luther. Synagogues are burning
like sandcastles. I slept with Rachel
by the well of Eternity
and we sang Rock of Ages in bed
before falling to sleep. Cattle cars
loaded with shoes and violins flashed
through my dreams. Chagall was leading
the lucky ones, hand-in-hand, up over
the rooftops to a primal kingdom.
I mix death and eroticism, nightmares
and escape mechanisms on the same plate.
Throw the bonemeal to the chickens.