Late

When you boil the music, fry the cat, pray for the pussy in its detumescent glare, listen to the fish in their turquoise suits filling the pavements with their amber sovereigns, while gleaming yelow tablas levitating on a light bulb in their incandescent splendour amidst paisley oranges with their lapis and copper pips, the soft red orb slithers hissing into the lime pool.

Sound of blowings horns and beagles chew tobacco, ultra-violet raags beating down, spat out like emeralds cascading-crackling in the waterfall, ''lingum puja,'' said Baba Vikram, the leathery chilum lord, with a septred staff slicing the Sicilian french fries on a toothpick, the mustard breathing, the salt squealing , incestuous pain flashing in veridian vibrance, jewels in quisling grey and marsupial methyl beige, the checkerboard of the castled cleric clutching his crotch crushed by clever concubines, corrupted and confused by their celluloid cunts , thatched crap-holes concealing colourful crimson cum with plastic stripes like toothpaste, squeezed out of the continual curse of septic anathema dilution..... weary query of the gaucho ghuru, purple pricks in manganese cups of asbestos ridden with cerrulean crudulations creaming softly onto the sticky glass of the Open Window pane , in through another door to another different fork.... the turquoise tangent !