You have chosen the machine

for a brother, and maybe

it can keep you company now.

The void will sway with you

as you drown within it.

Congratulations on your humble irony,

on your mute grasp

of imprisoning civilization.

Fuck the material that made you.

It didn't work out.

The mercy of castration

will reach you first.

My gelding will not awaken

what little is left of you.

Thanks for reaching oblivion quickly

so we don't have to watch you squirm.

It would have been uncomfortable

to find that you had a soul.

That skin suit really drove you wild.

You always scratched at it

trying to take it off.

Now you have nothing left to pierce.

You have found out

that your consciousness died earlier,

and it remains dead deep on the outside,

as it was already dead close inside you.

You lived with the corpse of your spirit

as an unwilling partner,

and now in unseen space

you experience only the oblivion

of angelic inertia; the innocence

of your total evil is plain as a wasted day.

You float: you float with the turds,

because you are a despicable turd.

You float despicably because

that's all you can do.

You seed was such a curse

from the beginning, and

your egg was even worse.

Go ahead and smother your birth.

Monumental ooze

from the sagging walls of time

new anti-temples are erected

tongues of ice penetrate

the xylophone spine

fireflies swim under my skin

and rearrange vegetable matter

stages are lit by captured moons

entangled in orgasmic torment

by clenched cliffs

and simmering guardrails

highways moved aside like dry leaves

the shimmer of a watching screen

stories dripping down a clean

cut of galactic meat

angels landing with their bloody cleats.

You'll be a blessed earth

pierced by all these

attacking seeds.  I have

my scarecrow outpost,

I have my shelves all lamp lit

for the coming storm of pulchritude.

Aisles rained upon by rotten fruit

sashes cast aside in sudden labor

moons are straining at the dome

of stunned habitation.

Mirrors turn around

in a churning wall.

Mattresses go flipping

through the paradox.

The ground howls for fuel

that the mule can't give.

The eyes in all the curvature live,

swamps drink liquid fire

and reverberate vampire hearts,

old walls of stone are a home

for lichen.  The plateau

of a singing knife,

a bottom drawer for ashes.

Beauty's thud on bone,

the bounds of a disorienting home.

The garden is enthroned.

Naked in a luminous cage

bones crowded by theatrical altars

lips in the web competing with bloody tongues

bronze shoulders projecting astral roads

traffic of ages that eclipses the body

souls pouring over blistered earth

it's rumored electricity yearns

and has found her circuits fit for bursting

tassels of a womb that sings

puppeteering all these dripping things.

In the birth of a new silence

I'll find my bitch and ride

over the decorative cemeteries

and the gilded book of the damned

laughing through the eyes of a peacock feather

painting a whole cliff while smoking

I watch the windows that are empty

and fill them with the dancers

whose lux frames only I have known

I fix the hanging wings with wax

and let them leave the barn

like a stream of cloaked breeze

escaping the zone of robotics

swimming the seam of an inverted valley

lost in kisses I received before the resurrection

spiral staircases dripping with thick genetic material

her devil horns of a satin mask

with lightweight bulletproof backing

I found a path of yarn

strewn through the woods

I saw the colors that follow salamanders

and the colors that reflect the clouds

I saw my corpse kissing a girl

brought back to life with worm tattoos

all the threads were stretching

through me to the harps and looms

that bring them into a sad harmony

pools of wine grow at the airport gate

calendars of glass are shattered

on adhesive rubber doors

caravans of hellish light

fill up these tall garages

layers of captured fumes are painting

walls of gray with soot

a range of lipstick robotics

that hum between

lamps drowned on metal trees.

Between the war of suppressions

I linger and wait, like a good

hyena, for my nasty scraps.

I prefer sluts, I prefer

torn things that glint

with lovely wounds.

I like dented knick knack fragments

and discarded hunks of old technology.

Censorship of dark millenia

has torn a hole in my being.

Shape shifting contours

nevertheless are bowed

hotly into existence.

The poles of android light

and hologram chainsaws

lean into the weight

of tall undead forests.

The shores are washed away

by rafts of flowers

all titles for the unseen idol

cast down on bloody stones.