Wednesday, November 20, 2013


Prey, what could I want revolting,
talk to eating all, thoughts rotten with sleep,
no will to imagine the future, pulled by a light,
angels over the parking lot, filaments dropping from clouds

the mind of a snake in a garden,
all warring with conquered earth,
burnt civilization, lingering in its laws,
surrounding the frenzied desire,
owned by a failed monk, failed millionaire.

Nothing stilled by thought, coming up molten and alive,
will silver the landscape with what rides atop blood
until the fiber in flesh breaks with what is tired of words

I will come down in rivulets from party mountain
singing purely.  Nothing that has touched me
in oblivion or waking will go to waste.

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