the dance of logos with fire

pale inert, hard cold metal pressed by the weight of meaning brought forth in an echo chamber made with a thousand faces scrapped off the flesh from a deed whipped like a horse driven towards the clouds, halts, tries to stop, combust into a million fat worms ingesting a dozen wings off the eye of a decaying fly. then the putrid stench floods the gullet of poseidon, wrenching his bound hands to break free from a genie's dream becoming the landfilled waste littered by giants squashing juicy worms lingering on wings unable to spread - that very act brings about a convulsion, a spin where the fall breaks the mind of a dashing car cam failing to send stored pictures of the cloud where a horse breaks through the fluffy mess and a knife slices galloping thoughts still bending metal with each burden when heaven fails to open secret wishes from pictures not in synchronization. sleepy giants roll about the iron saucepan. keen on keeping out of trouble, they tried to make eye contact when the fire began to heat up to cold, then warm, hot skin that wrinkles backwards to reveal a twisted rope, so out of shape it slipped right through the cracks of a heart chasing inks and swords even when all it needs is blood but the pump is distracted by the many rumbles of tossing waves becoming congested with radio frequencies ramming to the angry river whose blank face appeared when the highway became a deadlock where zen appeared to be a false art of souls reaching out to touch cold silence while the heat has become intense, the memory gap becomes a straight line that is seen with perfection but the data is archived, no longer a bright flame as the tortured giants begin to squash the shrieking saucepan to cave - and the sky fell down upon fire's brilliance whose time begins to dim. embers carve the slice of time, taking up space in the memory gap becoming solid like a cast made from thoughts and heart no longer blending to one arc above the miasma still being coughed out by poseidom snorting, heaving in large amounts of air as he breathes out those fat worms all gone to waste while the sick thuds of giants have begun to wake up thoughts sliced too much by a sickening metal blade still sizzling from a touch of brilliance that could not linger. it sputtered, limped, collapsed near where giants should have been - whiffed away to endless skies still reeling from yesterday's memory lapse of cherished desires wrapped up in horse, sliced away - to broken wings tainted with the death still spoiling away with poseidom finding freedom when dead worms burn away a genie's dream, till the pictures become fragments of me caught up in this quarrel lost in the way when highways get blocked with coldness from stares too long, they have become this transmission still calling towards heaven where angels lay waiting by a receiver whose ears are full of noise acting like signals - the outcome is the blank face of a zen master whose fake name should have given a jolt in the heart as the pump got a hint it needed to start moving. and yes those zombie eyed movements became the wings flattened from sitting too long as one giant no longer moves on a boiling pan's resistance to pressure when might was dealt with by a signal that got passed through the many deadlocks that held me between heaven's door and that rotting flesh covered with gaps in memory of running horses where knives could not reach