Monday, September 27, 2010


Now we come to the epoch, stamped in red
on the back of the neck,
two thousand costumes wield complete power
from a blue filter to a crooked screen of sex
when the different parts of the body are molded,
aching aura of sounds, with large paperweight eyes,
all their clothes in plastic bags,
arms from the brushes, the energy of sugar,
swarming from darkened day they strike the water
escape the intellectual shadow
slowly turn into fishes in the new structure
and turn into birds water-clocks and entrails
a giant heap of alien metal twenty girls are busy melting

The fringes are a silver death's living blanket
on the distance of the moon, insect broadcasts
and vacuum chambers, a small wax-covered wheel
in a steel vat of broth, maggots revolving a stone door.

During this quarantine, the spring should rise slightly
when the points of light turn corners, grinding wet
the two slits in our fitted suits of steel,
the harsh fate of these probes,
and the intermediary messenger
taking place in the halo as the galaxy itself
with rudimentary hind limbs.

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