The complete poem is attached below:
An Alternative Autumn
Written by The Standing Guest
He woke up mesmerized by the sight.
Kafka's "The Emblem of the City"
1
The air in blood still confesses in fantasies to the grotesque servant who awaits him
A red empty room is above the voyage of autumn In its whimpering
The transplanted liver still longs for October's self-mutilating atrocities in his dreams
Visions of the incoming glass practiced ringing bells and faking sleep
Happy despair is necessary at this time
For flag bearers rushing to dinner
Decadence and punishment are necessary, whips and spermatozoa
While debauched sleep continues to gather ecstatic light for the night
I see fornicators with green toes insisting on re-entering
a virgin's womb or a funeral procession. And for you
his tears should be more poetic than tomorrow's words
2
Ah, the naked lunch perched on a huge rubber penis
in the fall, how the centipede's semen tastes like plasma
and the female centipede longs for coitus on a dirty china plate, in the fall
If killing is the only thing that can destroy the other
If the other is the only thing that can be killed. Or
If only death can resurrect death The priest of the stroke
Please eat the carcass of the mackerel Suck the milk of the siren
In the fall Whose graves are drifting on the twisted river
Noonday's empty molester drunkenly falls in front of his peepers
Prohibited behaviors have waited too long Self-indulgent women
Ah, don't tell us about your This post-apocalyptic claw
Failed in anticipation of a fountain of pleasure Give me some drugs
My phantom is ejaculating in the post-apocalyptic fall
Who would take possession of two flesh-colored petals flying on their honeymoon
And the rodent's complexion makes this fall even more apocalyptic and demonic
3
Phosphorous flames on the water are words left behind by the dead. It's the words of the dead left on earth one evening
It's much like the bloodstained wings of decay and gloom
It's much like the sinful kisses of the perverted, the hedonistic journeys of carnal desire
The ghosts of the faded are enamored of it as of an aroused gaze
And the gilded pills have enough energy to imagine our deaths
In the thin, rancid blanket, look at it. In the thin, glistening, rancid quilt Look
We searched all night for a dreamy paradise
How much it resembles a damaged beehive-like stomach Sugar in the food
If depravity or writing is the ladder to it
A rose casket is waiting for the lethargic Queen Bee in the pass of autumn
A handful of burial earth is burying the only trumpet Look
At the present moment: How mirthful is mirth, how sad is sadness
A few pages of manuscript easily incinerated the cave of mankind
I retrieve the lost chalice of my kind in the alternative blood of autumn
4
When the blade of phantasmagoric beauty reinserts itself in the vile flesh
Women in furs are trapped in hypothetical love
Disappearance of the noonday, the paper flowers leave the last of the dubious blind. The dubious blind man leaves a last stain of light, and the bats in its echoing light carry my writing over the fall
Like death travels with life, where else can their absurdity be branded
When the lust of the rabble once again reigns over the delusion, and the brass key opens the door to the flesh
Oh, a butterfly perches on the lips of the filth-eaters
Otherwise, at the ball, I may not belong to the metal machine. I may not belong to the metal machine of
food, like spastic eyes not to the luxury of incubation
When the light of disillusionment passes over the pathos of stagnation, I don't belong to the moment
And these strange limp shadows are rolling over my dead body
Carrying pregnant tumors to the bordello or to the fountain, oh, I may belong to the dust of the lost reason, ah
And the time has come to give the body a chance to be a part of the world, a chance to be a part of the world. >
It's already time to nurse the dead Behind the waning landscape
Some poisonous eye peers at the blood in my palm The waters of the end times
5
I'm going back to the night of the Nativity I'm going back to the obscure caves of the earth
I'm going back through the city of the sinking ghosts The moon rises out of the marshes
Red chicks on the mandrill's table save from starvation
protesting against the pretentiousness and extravagance of autumn's destruction
6
who arranges for grey zombies to infest a poet's fictional scene
like pilfering gnomes in and out of an icehouse of snow and fairytales, who knows that the flames of the dead weeping in a ring of fire are more prone to self-destruction than the piercing light of an autumn that's been possessed by a self-murderer
and who knows that the flames of the dead crying around me are more prone to self-destruction than the piercing light of an autumn that has been possessed by the self-murderer. of autumn When my imagination
moves on ashes, music, autumn, stupor and beyond
poets leave caressing traces of dirt in their beauty dreams
spitting out a mouth full of broken teeth on a raft I wonder
whether alternative autumns are better suited to the hasty burials of dreamers
the send-offs are strewn with paper money and words nibble away at marijuana
the sea is a rose against the sea, the essence of the dead. >The rose that bucks the sea The spermatic bird that opens her undersea door
Her train embroidered with belly snakes Oh beautiful blue carcass
The specimen of the human body in the mirror Who asks to join in after an indulgence
The escapades of moulting men The bad heart that sells the last match
Who else purchases the ashes of the sacrifice in the vision of the word Oh
At the celestial toad's At the will of the zombie **** sleeps in a doomsday palace
7
A shipwreck survivor is convinced that the floods overwhelm the church steeple
An overdosed poet dies in a dream
A teller of ventriloquism prepares alternative brains for mankind
A literature-loving whore offers a performance artist a free supply of postmodern sexuality
What if the dense, thick heart sells the last match? p>
If, in the mirror of reappearance in the dead of night
The nightingale's song is like the unspoken last words of a violent death
October's lover brings a dubious climate to the red empty room
The snake that freezes early to avoid punishment, its wish
is tampered with by the bat, whose wings carry me to the clearing of the cloud
Fly, if the beautiful language of the bird is a bird of prey, and it is a bird of the air. The beautiful words are made from the semen of birds of prey
Eternal wings are more fleeting when they meet withered petals in the wind
The waters of the Dead Sea need the eclipse of the day more than blind bards
When a nameless hell secretly sends me the words of moths
One man wants to own another's sleep more than the other's life
One man wants to possess another's life more than the other's sleep more than the other's sleep more than the other's life. A lifetime
8
Heaven, the prison of perfect genitals, the lizard's dance floor
Witches with fish-scaled skin, harp players
Take back the omitted imagery, festering wounds
African viruses breed psychedelic notes, and in the cape guesthouse
AIDS sufferers who puff smoke rings, lovely soft Skulls
like the end-of-the-century sun Memories bring to the languid
Orgasms in paradise Disabled people who wallow in upwind travel
The sea is more like a waterbed Coitus completes the sundown
Rituals Pets snarling dogs growling and snarling
It keeps watch at my supper for your vomit excrement
When it dreams that the mouths of drug addicts are judging the memories The mouth of a drug addict judging the atrocities of memory
A pair of spongy false breasts commanding your hands to caress it Fantasizing
All that's left for autumn at last is a yellow Pegasus Oh
The rabid man pleads with me to carry him on my back to escape from the prison of flowers
How dark is the windy noonday How much does my soul's body resemble
An alternative drop of semen waiting for the day of resurrection in the sun's In the womb of the sun waiting for the day of resurrection
9
Why do the poppies of autumn lose their nightmares before the tongue does
Birds of prey who admire brown sugar and grapes Blood and filth are the other drugs
How long has a pack of gophers salivated at the altar on the remnants of my thoughts
The sheets are stained with their menstruation, and the white angel opens the
Rusted barred window, the moon in the refracted light. The refracting moon illuminates the tundra below
The spouse, the inverted balloon that looks like the eyeball of something
The testicles of autumn, my companion and I playing cheap sex games
A nickel coin engraved with his star, I open the window of the sky
Throwing kindling into the mirror of the earth, the acid-filled bottle
Me, a lost drug addict in the light of a delusion. I, a disillusioned drug addict bent on the glory of illusion
I ignite the vision of a camper on the desert, while the churches of October
are collapsing and the colorblind albatross poetically enters the cabin of mankind
to perch on the steerage of the poppy who chooses to make the pilgrimage at 5:00 a.m.
under the laurel, who cries out:
Living is death, death is living
and heaven for the end-time autumn is the same as the end of the world. Heaven is hell for an apocalyptic autumn
10
The contraceptives I pick up in empty shrines, four-fingered gloves
Who am I? Leftover frozen chickens, the shriveled pets of male prostitutes
The statue in the sparsely-populated plaza, if only it could see the light of a falling star
Dust is the other side of the coin, under the eaves of the roof
Bisexual entertainers washed the lotus flower with the blood of lambs, and the blood of the lotus flower, with the blood of the lamb. The bisexual artist who washes the lotus flower
Will be like me, a humble body waiting for an alternative rape
Or a drug addict in the name of God, making autumn a rogue's bill
Who am I? The persecuted stallion, the imaginary pain-maker
On the autumn day, when the rotting fruit hits the hollowed-out man in the forehead
On the upside-down statue of the god who tempts the apocalyptic elitists to wander Into a written-off
moral paradise, food for vampire bats in castles
Greedy suicides Spiritual pilgrimages to decaying morality
I face the sacred bed Losing the paper of my privacy
While I'm segregated from what I see as culture's garbage, trapped in a
swamp, a milking goat accepts the crocodile's vicious salvation
Who's counting on a flock of firebirds to ignite the empty house? A flock of firebirds to ignite the despair of an empty room
The shade of a dead leaf to cut off the return of a trapped beast
11
A giant lizard with eyes full of ash, whose corpse you'll carry along with you on your crawl
Perhaps only a foolish stallion crosses a sea of stagnation all day long
An elm tree witnessing a river's demise retracts to ask:
Is tomorrow's death coming early in my fall? Is my autumn ahead of schedule
The rafts of stolen kindling have reached the nests of the trees, and you whistle
The spiders weave their webs in the pines, and the ants
divide up the food of mankind, and if only the whipped
saints, who have seen the suffering of the Holy Child, and the fearful dogs, who accept the prayers of the queen bees, you send the phantoms back to the seats of the other
you hear the stars, and you hear the stars, which are as bright as the stars. >You hear the starry words curse the meeting with the alternative
The pitch-black horsehide hangs in the air, and then
Once you're bound by it, the beast of the end of the century
Can't be resurrected from the dead, but becomes a watermark of autumn
12
"What does the other world mean?" In the garden of autumn
Daffodil holds on to its decadence, incestuous flowers. decadence, incestuous flower snakes fantasize about summer's
sands, those masked men who beat drums
surviving patterns like nooses around their necks, those roses that bare their privates at tombstones
Death sees its dolls
in shackles for a final indulgence, where the incestuous organs of the Other finally speak up and tell the date of the autumn's demise
Tell me, the Other's incestuous organs. p>
Tell me what the other world means
What fall is a metaphor for, what flowers
open silently over the corpses of the alternative, where the hemorrhagic bluebird will bury the remains
Speak up
I'll let you name the location of the hidden fiery prison, or
Let me be late in arriving at the fall burial in October
The death of an autumn fly is as glorious as the ashes of the last days.