They come from 

the primordial depths of cytoplasmic seas:

Paracystic spores devour our hosts’ cell,

Pataphysical flora deflowers our souls in odious fluoride,

Pharmakonical megafauna lumbers invisibly overhead and under hill.

If you are the blood, they quell the stream.

Screaming from darkest corners of nowhere to become

something, they will have their fill and spill

guts and collapse society in fits of glee and ecstasy.

They are the Pleroma whence all shapes ship.

All told,

they’re near

now.

I feel them squirm in my biome’s cracked dome.

Sup on death.

Wish simply to live.

Energy crackles blue between excited electrons, and 

they spew 

like Pallas Athena,

fully formed,

from my fertile flesh.

Some say,

they’re here.

How?

Some siphon sustenance

from the pleural membrane of the human lung;

so smoke up and hack out

a bouncing baby polyphore.

Others carve xeno-amphibious passage through sonic dimensions,

dodge omnivore, and

secrete vibratory secrets before breaching

to become a song

stuck in your head so long,

that you become stuck in the song.

Secret toadstools claw their way

out murkiest myth,

burrow beneath fairytale perverse,

gallop over corpses of forgotten lore,

and sink into the quivering wombs of innocent minds. Reverse

the nucleic process to produce

something different, something new.

More, more, more.

Mutate!

Deviate. Explicate. Extricate

your next self from the carapaceous husk of the old conception.

Guzzle cocoonase

and feel your capricious jaws unhinge in concert with the doors of perception.

Queer reality.

Delicious proteinaceous particles fill the

bacteriophagus maw

of Your Great Destroyer.

Name the Beast,

and claim him tamed.

Orgone Energy freely flows off the Landed Gentry;

therefore I,

born in virus, said,

“Invasion decry:

Eat me, dead.”