Monday, August 24, 2015


Our one torpedo moon, sheathed in dead silk,
unwinking, oblique: I blow you up in my mind.

And still you descend sideways to rend my planet-side
rib of ages unread cave scripted on the walls fossilized
bread that the ages never ate and so became the stilled
cityscapes of the tamed, viper morsels playing a grid's game
to be deranged into sameness; and the aimless
river that became the channel that we flow in, is overflowing
for the strength of the moon, gravity's mad placenta
of energy, colored by time to arc in sync with formlessness,
to shape the changing of an age by aiding its expansion,
I build a mansion on the torched expanse of a torched mansion.

And our moon expands its lasso, I'm a mouth-mushing
Progresso, painted in grease on the table, taking the cables
of my house apart compulsively, to set up a bunk in the wreck
of me, tides are the shape of me, a symphony charges my throat
an ampitheater openeth my ears, I bang tape cassettes on pianos
I manage the breakdown of the cosmos with my sphincter
and cosmic cock of ages, I spank sages this dick is free
and the moon's every imprint is imprinted upon me.

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