I place slippery wet YES kisses on the black crows in your stomach

and on the glowing red cardinal birds who fill the night sky.
I hold your precious heart in my hands and my eyeballs grow vines into it
and I weep round sloppy joy while telling you that you are perfect.

There is great beauty to be found in the oceans choked with garbage,
in the coughing poverty streets filled with schizophrenic prophets and opioid eyes,
in the Sauron eye of Google,
and in the pounding of the war drums as the ICBMs are readied.
It is not hard to see.
It is not even hidden.
We hold hands on the precipice and pour YES into the madness,
the majestic, orgasmic, omnicide angel madness.

Come what may.
Come, what may.
Come on, whatever may come.
We beckon forward the inevitable.
We collaborate with the chaos.
We ride as passengers with ancient earthworms and DMT gods
on the back of an infinite sea turtle
holding hands in excitement
for whatever is to come.