Saturday, October 18, 2025

Flakes of old lives on film
carried by a stream of molten wreckage
tongues pooling in a furnace mouth
purple vines of an unsettled south.

Naked forms on barrels drifting
through smoke battered arches and
nudging the machinery of dreams.

In cycles a quartz lady screams.

Friday, October 17, 2025

Ladders are floating
and bending in air
each link is a painted portal

through stunned clouds
to blue playful bodies
over rutted crests
of cemetery hills

mushrooms blooming
from the footsteps
of the devils of the dawn

blankets of leaves
arrange a crux around
my phosphorescent torso

root's poison pulsing every branch
sap lit with oil of caverns
egg's map of the deathless depths.

Thursday, October 16, 2025

Blossoms on the waning tree
bright thistle mouths
shaking a video frame

squirrels munching on a lit fence
currents dancing over lonely lanes
beneath a granite tower

paths over the mountain
carry slow moving dogs
each one the same white color as the snow

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

Blades of raw inertia
make war upon
an individuated corpse.

You tried to plug their breaking dam
with your flesh: they pulled you out
and cursed you for the flood
that they unleashed.

You wasted your martyrdom
on a horde of ingrates.
Now they celebrate
your willingness to be killed.

There is no place for humanity
among humankind.  Stop trying
to save the masses.  Their doom
will be yours.

Imagine a sober Bukowski.
Imagine a self-indulgent Buddha.
Imagine a profane, sarcastic Christ.
Imagine an anti-war, anarchist Muhammad.
Imagine a Gandhi who no longer gives a fuck.

Throw their stories away
throw their respect away
throw their values away
throw their entertainment away
throw their beliefs away
throw away the cancer that cures
their cancer.  They have no answers.

Tuesday, October 14, 2025

REQUIEM

From the entrails of dead dogs,
from the trickle of cracked brains,
from the copulation of oiled androids
comes a sad and disembodied song.

The surfaces change
but the depths remain the same.
And now those depths
are swallowing your fake world.

There is no escape
from entire lives lived in falsehood,
no relief to be found
behind another clotted mask,
no mercy in the grip of your
monotonous and automatic master.

From the pink blood of shells
the sea vomits up in froth,
from the chains wired back together
no matter how many times they are broken,
a tuned cacophony rises much too carefully
and the simulation continues.

Truth was stillborn in this world
and its cells fade out like tendrils into a void.
People are social beings: we want
to be noticed by our killers
as we flail down ruined avenues,
glad to be jeered as we die:
better to be mocked by these lunatics
than left alone in silence.
Even the soul of solitude
abides in an inverted violence.

From infant skulls in welded doorways,
from a land of pepper and a land of salt,
from banquet tables left sideways
by a row of tortured grapes...

Want more poetry?  Fuck you.
This is mine.  Write your own
in your own weary blood.
Stuff it down with rags and hack and hack.

Monday, October 13, 2025

Gears chew human meat
to produce utilitarian architecture.
These structures drain emotion
and increase numb obedience.
This is to be celebrated
with every square on the calendar.
We are glad to be civilized
cleansed of all identifying features.

Hate your neighbor within
the limits of the framework.
Express your angst with impotence
to make the blow go down smooth.
This is the joy of democracy.

Our brave enforcer androids
share our sophisticated ideals.
Wound them and you shit
on the storyboard.  Don't
muss the narrative with such
unnecessary feeling.  Extinction
comes for all, it must be
greeted with humility, maturity
and wisdom.  Call out
the glorious names of some
old books.  Our savior has
arrived in cellophane.

Crucify unruly spirits
starting with the errors of the brain.
We share the deep deliciousness
of pain.

Sunday, October 12, 2025

Looking for a spout of unknown water
that broke a rock and fell into the sky
wings of paper fallen from departure
gems of plastic fallen on the roots
of disappeared trees.

A crushed salt grain
blown along by violent whispers
powder clinging to the bones
of a chicken who was born alone.