The sky is vast and violent and

my bones are a chicken's death

I see the possums climbing trees

before and after flying fences

and bouncing trash cans

their eyes are beady and unperturbed

and mine should be too.

Talent is a way to spend time

not some transcendent insight

no epiphany will save you

you have to eat shit and die

like everyone else.

Shapes come out of the dark with radiant form

veins drawn to the height of electric wires

I see hellfire crawling over me like meat

I see the roads dragged by painted corpses

I see rancid thugs digging

with diamond studded shovels

and the tents of steel with proud windows

framing holographic kings

the howling deception of history.

I am a bent hysteric

tapping a twig in my blood

to mark a blank sail

with the harm that stars and soil

have done to me

these trails of healing loneliness

that lead to everything true.

Richness of spirit is smashed

on these waves of shit

but the orb of eyes at rest

rises to drift godlike over all

and sends down myriad mute

dancing messengers

dogs of warless lightning

leashes lashed to hands of fog

bones flying on velvet webs

alone in a creaking town

I see the rubber dome slide over

crackling machinery of stars

behind the milky screen

bricks rotating in spiral torsos

headless beauties poised in antiquity

flags of silk in wind that toils

projected from the dark interior

of a horned atomic angel

dice bouncing in the alleys

where the music surged in painted ways

those fire escape days.

Leviathan drowned in a bathtub

purple vines encasing the old fortress

where stones become reptilian crawlers

gardens gash order with order

liquid walls are open to the sky

in courtyards where the sight of extra stars

blooms backbrain on an air plateau

I'm a torn goner

under the many skins I have worn out

this hand grenade heart is ready

beauties glide bars of frozen light

to my hands that are shackled

to their willing strings

I sing what the sirens give me

bronze arrows ejaculate wombs

palm trees with metal tentacles

the skull is a symbol of consciousness

no longer taking part

I was a rag thrown

into a polisher's bucket

I thought the world was immortal

and my life the key

such thoughts a rag can think

and while I am swirled around

in waxy suds

and taken on a tour of the stars

on the sides of my bucket

weight is descending to dance

on my disintegrating fibers

so let it be music

let it be the crest of a careless day

let it be a swing that wraps

around the pole

without losing its passenger

a caught criminal with fancy

spiritual ideas

shrugging off the storm-carved mountains

and the senseless sun

lips laughing at the center of nothing

Paving stones on bones of rye

nonsense rhymes that never die

the soft spot in machinery's vortex

polyrhythms that live

in reconstructed spine

paths flowing in cool lines across

a landscape of hyacinth madness

strewn with milky violins

fire circles on the vacant hulls

of fallen intergalactic ships

diabolical angelic prancing

in the eyes that vines grow

under magical duress

a pyramid's cone peak

up ahead in the land

of weightless harbors

five fingers from the sun

in a frigid harness

light's miles of unseen matter

hurt blood in a vise grip

plastic antler standing tall

at the entrance of a seamless hall.

Slashed lungs latching

onto a twisted heart

strangling the blood

with stale escaping air

long ruts bisecting ornate houses

with a miracle of mud,

with wings of white leather,

dressing rooms with shelves

of china masks

gutted by laser light, jagged glass

pushing at plastic shields,

void clashing with mechanical aspiration,

huge wheels of human bone and teeth

finally at rest.

Splinters of smashed armor

fumes of evaporating blood

from beyond oblivion

the rim of a cracked plate

glinting from an open door

knives hanging in rows

from the night's horizon

logs floating downstream

with the features of laughter

to the rings of a distorted place.