Wednesday, April 29, 2015


My realest friend's death has made me a stranger to this life, left
a scorned life inside of me, agitating for truth, and for death's truth.
People can see that kind of thing blindly.
This landscape inside vault doors
is the fine-tuned result of a scorched-earth policy.
The pawns flow with milk from their heads.
The kings and queens spin in the milk brilliantly.
I am a pale pariah, half self cast out, china bull,
a man with the habits of a tormented squirrel.
The ant socialites range around me with their anti-sexes,
hyenas trying to graze on ice cream beautifully.
Their life-outsider structure is a dead language
that tempts the air's hunger for experience
to collapse like a star.  Slowly pistils descend into stamens.
Yellow is proclaimed shapely by the computer-led vegetation.
Earth is corrupted by cleanliness.  My species sucks a bowel-train
of remorse and mercy out of my tail cavity.

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