Cool glass eyes

locked tight on the nothing night.

Forms lacking energy

slain on the doorstep

of a painted world.

Messiah of feces

trapped in dead wood.

Wombs of false light

no longer linked to the earth,

breeding insolence.

Bones of reptilian plastic

tapping all the harp cords

of the cage.

This world is a grave

filled with stinking bodies.

We bury our dead with dead.

I no longer see intellect

as intelligence.  I see it

as a trap.  I see the

products of mind

adding disease to the sewer.

Any death is good enough

to get away from human faces,

human voices.  Their holidays

are hell on earth, they decorate

their feces with jewels.

Trash is their fancy, helicopters

drop more dead meat

for them to feast on.  They

imprint popular brand names

on their chains and sleep

as they live, without shame

or sense.  Their presence is

a flaming fence around a squirming

garden.  My veins harden.

She likes to be licked and painted

from both sides, by two hungry avatars

while the murky ceiling plays Slayer

and rice paddies glisten

in the early evening

she watches through a dollar store telescope

me shining rows of tables

dropping lace from balconies

for me to salvage from threadbare rugs

she's got me in a web of bright

dancing pentagram rays

each beam separate from the alphabet

that once constrained my purple fangs

we are lovers laughing

on a shattered windshield

letting the engine cool

on our sinister spines.

I dream of a blank ride

of lanes that shine too brightly to be seen

deep drawers full of teeth

lines tugging at a gelatinous book

as the automatic nonentities take over

as the sun is kept behind a talking shield

I am still fucking with the soil

sheer as storm flogged hail

whipping memorized skin

skull fortresses of nanoactive clay

can take the future

I'll close car doors on all old selves

who habitually watch the timeline

mistaking costumes for pure spirit

crones enslaved by the earth

bathing my concentric grave

in the milk of a tattooed electron

cloaked by cells of a gyrating angel

whose mercy is slick,

whose hips are touching

the grit of air.

Interests, hobbies, what are those?

I only have passionate obsessions.

I see rings of thinking fire

coming for me and I want

to eat them.

What are the universal laws?

Strip them down for me,

let me ride them to glory.

Make me an example of hell's beauty.

Hang your laundry

on the power lines

outside my painted window.

Show me how the gods love.

Blow the dust from the moon,

see the metallic center.

Build ladders from flesh.

Sort out the irritating diamonds.

These pants can talk.

These elegant silks can move.

Sharks don't conceptualize pleasure.

Money drowns in rivers of itself.

But I, I can kill myself

with my own mind.

You passed and pushed me

into the dominion.

Now I'm stuck to this, a rivet

in their mountain of machinery.

I watch the seams that bust

and inject them with poison.

I glow when I'm supposed to go out.

I slide when I'm supposed to rise like bread.

I go down the hole in the street

where I won't be eaten.

Lanes of light cut through

from your afterworld.

Swirling geograms on the scarred

underside of the sky.

Coins fall from the stars

in meaningless streams.

This is the apocalypse I wanted,

and it slapped my hand away.

I won't take part this time:

the bones and their programming

can no longer hide in flesh.

The song to sing last is a sad song.

Let the audience go, let your

whole outfit burn.

The new world will come

out of the furniture.

An angle hidden in the city map

holds the poise of a granite cat.

We're on opposite sides of the glass

and the glass is gone.

The walls are rising higher than the night.

I cast my serpent hand into enfolding space

the line of lagging voices flagged and snapped

is in my shattered blood

the work of shrines requires endless offerings

doors are painted with a seer's eye

each fisted hand is a cabin of hearts

where the fires of love emit a pleasing stench

to be reported across glass bridges

I'm searching for the cinematic piston

that oils the feline spine

a spoon to fill with the light of wheat

dawn's painfully clear tables

to be lavished with the nightmares of the soul

caught fresh from the alchemist's pool

where fire licks fire