Slamming ten ton dice
into the brain pan
parted lips of the cooing skull,
highways flowing on the headboard
where the bed burns
like a wrapped chunk of leaves,
spitting sleeves and rotten underthings.

A falling line stitched into the hills,
sending pedestrians with burnt beaks
soaked to the spine in petroleum.

Spring follicles that pitchfork
sound and space
with a fever of running water.

Rugs lapping brick walls
from the power of laundry cords
stretched between towers
that make the land ache
a vast forehead spewing cabinets
whose doors pour out the painted china
designed with a sacred smirk.

Paved paper from the lava pump
running engines over letters.