The flesh of dancing bones

distinguished by fire

finds a colorful cranny to die in

places organs that sing

on a counter-harmonic altar

and with a grin torn into the heart

falls down like a dead sex organ

into the infertile abyss.

Mountains cracked by steam

and reeking lava

fleeced of trees

and the flight of the living

invite the attachment

of Martian forests

amphibian eyes of cruel

elongated giants

grafted serpents

and the baby shit

of dying angels

wax teeth of encrusted books.

If one should turn with gentle eyes

to sweetly perceive the extent

of the homogenous terror

that one will be wasted away

not by a bomb or a crucifix

not by a series of guns

or a tightening noose

but by the limpness

of a sleeping herd.

To harden against it is to break

to surrender is to be suffocated

the way to ascension is blocked

by divine stupidity

this is the wrong world

and you are the wrong rebel

might as well eat tar in flake form

for breakfast cereal

might as well drink reptilian milk

for gasoline.

Orchids forcing through the eyes

the thrill of diabolical water

poison roots in poison soil

branches of elongated flesh

hissing with toothy hysteria

barren lands stricken

with diseased blood.

Slashed costumes of rancid cloth

birthing latex replicas

chains of rubber dolls bathed

in radiant liquid shit

repeating robot harmonies

in obedient recital

the rust of metal wings

peppering a planetary

volcanic throat.

Plastic idols melting into rings

of toxic flowers

ponds of mechanical piss

eating antique bones.

Cracked sky proclaims electricity

fronds gush from split stems

green sap of violent life

paths of radiant lava

curling malignant steam.

Figures pushed through mud

animated bronze and marble

peacock dresses flouncing

from the frolic of manic nymphs

on a dwarf god's limbs

the panic of dark blood in silver water

an altar of seductive steel.

Deep knotted brains of ice

drowning in baths of mercury

red ferns atremble

in vines like a raging river

sinews dancing for a death drunk moon.

Delirious days

fade into the kaleidoscopic spectrum

drums that waft like leaves

bikini snapping on beer fed blankets

wet stone blinking in a cloud brushed sun.

I lean back on a bench

to watch my ghost turn corners

the machine of a cruel afternoon

conveyor belt souls.

Light comes from broken places

to be corrupted

the stained cloth and the shadow

to carve out our melee

the blades of these fragments are enough

and as beauty comes forth from death

so my hours bloom.

My days are ghostly bulbs that float

through the pulsings of

thick veiled afternoons

in the tide of stones

I'm a turning utensil

in dreams of dripping light

I fly above painted roads

watching tunnels dug up

turn slow machine somersaults

men's bodies tied to churning clocks

and women folding chloroform cloths.

In the cracks between ransacked calendars,

in the pools left behind by receding darkness,

I trim hedges that hold fortress doors,

I pile up hordes of spirit-tongued vitamins,

I watch the fan blades articulate

unceasing circles, in tubs of zinc tubes

I rinse the blood of brakes

on dawn's awareness,

I swing the chains with vacant hooks

for all the puppets who are gone.

Branded by the brightest blades

goblet brain dripping with

nuclear paint on the patios

of smoke-linked cafes,

the lipstick-smeared kisses

on cracked brick porches,

high ladders with Buddhist banners

trailing off into the talk

of an abandoned night.

Vines crawling concrete canyons,

birds clacking in the iron ribs

of a snaking overpass

footsteps of the lonely

on an egg-stained cemetery ridge.

Trembling walls of painted grates

wherein the gnashing teeth make song

strings of fire and dripping tongues

lashing at the cloud-soaked sermons of grease

from bearded waifs with poor faces

eyes of solid red in turmoil's flesh

the flying bones and brain

of the distinctly human.

Spiral staircases into empty air

glint like frozen milk

and separate the thunder

of a great thaw

bright kisses of burning lips

upon marbled brows,

thin waves of the dying voices

that tried a caught raindrop

of spiritually illegal color,

faint droppings on the page that flipped

for the pulse of a glowing cellar

to grow throne shroom cathedrals

with vortexes spiced and leaded

the upthrust of breathing stones.