I can feel the mystery of the fungus

growing in every vein.

Peach fuzz phosphorescence

glowing on epidermal armor

fresh from the storm of the ages

that is eating the sky.

Death is coming in a thousand disguises,

raining on walls of steel with relentless music,

hiding in the balls of sand with balloon skin,

splattering the rails that hold

a throne of fecal ice.

Light is leaking from my toes

and from my shaded hands,

I must see the scattered rays

that link it to a fading shore.

February's looking for the fool.

Here I am, here I am.

The trees dissemble and the low sky

drools in plastic spirals.

Next year is already cut

into drifting pieces.

The paths are made by metal burning

through uncertain earth.

These stumps are painted breathless

by the spinning of

imprisoned machinery.

I sit and wait for my pores to be filled

but infinity can't heal the breach

between flesh and stillness.

The rhythm of life is loss.

The bloom pounds down the door

and steals the scene, but the round

sanctum of the void holds.

The evaporation of existence leaves

a hammered glow.

Stunned by the depth of silence,

I play my drowning note

to play, to play, to play,

and not to stay.

From the shroud of darkest kisses

I slipped away to a road of solitude.

Separation brightened

as the clutch of flesh

receded behind many miles.

The sound of unbothered air

became an eerie music.

It brushed my skin free

of brittle plastic echoes

that gather in commercial outposts.

Released, no embrace

could bring me back

to the neat rows of cemeteries

or the gleaming engines

carrying their fleets of shiny legs

and internal eyes.

The masks of cultural phantoms

have fallen from my form.

I am naked in the crushing weight

of unnamed forces.

Paths poured in iron

flake away like burnt grass.

How can I move these wooden limbs

now that the strings have snapped?

Who can show me the shape of things

behind the fallen facade?

Is there anyone among the senseless

who can dream themselves awake?

You move toward emptiness

in the circuits of these dying words.

Based in blue light

a cyclone's gears of metallic tendrils

lock thorns around

some interactive gel.

A seat beside the vomit pool

of self dissecting dancers

who trampled over fields of tongues

a peaceful spot to watch

turmoil and its worm army.

A tear of oil

verging on the captured sea.

Snare of daylight

tightening around the wrist

of a reluctant hand,

wounded milk

that crawls through systems

to trickle down disturbed forms,

ray that seeks disgruntled heat

and pulls the thread of threads.

Mouth of invisible zones,

peripheral halls that wind

a palace basement

to a library of painted bones.

Basket of malignant lava

make it shine for me.