Let the melting fruits from your endless gardens of misery drip from   the space between your gnashed teeth and piercing tongue. Spill your song over my shaken innocence and adulterated mind. Every muscle strained, contained, within your rotting picket fences, and   poisoned by your voluntary paralysis. Fill the air inside me, around me, surround me with   your logical insanity and peaceful lunacy. Unleash one more scream, one more push, plunging me into   the beckoning oceans of your stinging stanzas. . . Venturing into the assembled tissues of your soul. I can feel you lingering between the lines. Harmony bouncing off every cell in my body, Rhythm, trickling, crawling edging, condensing into   a thin stream of perspiration dripping down my spine. Flaming tempos, and penetrating frequencies send a shock of vitality   . . . inhabiting the walls of my life affirming vessels. I'm still alive. The vigor of your vocal chords, the capacity of your lungs,   extending to lengths formally thought to have been humanly impossible. Your erupting sound resonates in my mind for eternity,   finally taking residence between my brain and my skull. Your voice mingling with my gleaming entrails. Conquer my reflection with your familiar syllables, Emblazon your nature into my distant yearning stare. . . We are no longer distinguishable from one another,   fugitives of a world we didn't create. Coaxed into an existence of endangerment, where you taunt me with   your haunting melodies. Your omniscient eyes widening, inhaling   the uncontrollable droves proudly drowning in your inundating presence. Seas of humanity sent to the brink of lethal hysteria at   the first hint of your intimidating sound. This massive organic animal proudly receives   the comets of agony that incarcerate your posture. Imbibe their spirit to realize your escape. They are a mortal victory over your memories. Elicit an orgasmic thrill from the roaring waves of interflowing flesh. Your tangible recollections immobilizing the tamed frenzy of   fingers and cartilaginous fingertips enveloping the microphone. Thoughts aching, Head shaking, Mind reeling, Soul kneeling.  . .   flame Gripping my gaping insides. I must submit to the veracity tickling the edges of my thoughts. In this war there are No white flags, No surrender, No casualties. . . except your privacy. Somewhere among this new, twisted reality the outsiders call fame,   you have learned to survive. Orpheus lives. copyright 1996 Melissa Aellos for Eddie Vedder

Onomatopoeia of Immortality