"The Alchemist (who turns shit Into gold)" or
"The Princess and Her Peeve" or
"She Sells Cigars by the Sea... Sure"

The last bastion of bestial bovines decree:
"Inflate thyself exponentially!"
With a flair for a fairly scatter-bralned deed.
Eve had a re-nuisance and took to the lead...
Certainly scatter-brain-dead indeed
our little pet peeve bled when she peed
having once sought to soak (with her womb) up the seed
of some scum to fool up her fill in her whole
with such ill-conceived need…

that she fiddled with he who in the violence of greed had
creamed as she screamed and then loathed just what she'd
been delivered; a fetus of the bastard's creed.
Now: this lovely nai-Eve, I regret I believe is as of yet of the best
of my new pet peeves and as I've pet her I could'nt help but to grieve
and wonder what could she've hoped to retrieve
from this ill-fated affair through which she'd conceived.
And as she stretched out (truth) laying down (lies) in her bed
visions of mattresses danced in her head
like loaves the French boast of made of stale bread.
And with syrupy semen dribbling down, atop sits our Eve
looking down with a frown–hoping that batter might better this world,
the whole wide world whorled–whore-led girl then unfurled in a banner of Pi-seas
to appease and applaud all the crude and the lewd from the peas in the pod who're
allowed to roll out to spend time seeking God, yet are gluttons
of fanciful wet (underwear) dreams and
lascivious red valentines; candy-ass pantiful–puffed
and aborted–abhorrent, distorted creamy-puffed broad broken-in
pain well worn. Eve, in a maxi-pad, drawn and forlorn Is weaving
through evening's hip-sheik of pom cutting tips off of phalluses
almost till dawn, then comes home, stretches out (truth) lays down
(lies) in her bed–feels a lump in her tummy;

"A pea from the pod!" –must we prod you, you dummy?
Naive is the Eve who condom-less screweth...
Screwed is the tale of this peeved little Jewess.

in jungle...
been here long time
now lost in the leaves.
Heavy rains, golden
afternoon light through
pulsing curtains like
falling jewels - a mist -
a pervasive stillness
in the commotion of
growth (dogs stole my
shoe...) amongst paint-
ings not painted by the
artist... Giant moth cov-
ers floor with maniac
flight, bats fly in and
wizz past my head. Not
a bad version of winter.

It's very cool at night. Sounds of creaking house in crack jungle–heads
about lurking... a spider's running up and down my back, a bomb explodes
inside my spine–shock waves through my body. I begin to tingle all over;

circulation down. Heart laboring, knocking on the inside of my chest.
Does that signal, "the end is near", or, "retrace your steps and heal some
more?" HEALING... Heal, boy, heal... ! Sometimes I like the idea of being
a good puppy... sell my rights to some woman–I'll stay, have your way
with me... stay... STAY... Good boy, good boooyyy!!!

Excerpts from "The Jungle Journals" by Lucas Bass ©1992, 2007, 2014