Let the dawn paste

cover me like a napalm calm.

Rivers talk to the telephone line,

black seagulls crash on the concrete.

What has been weathered

now gone to the galaxy's

rending indifference

the light of magnetic basements

drawn from tight gloved stars.

Newspaper in its cigarette smashed clover

now unreadable as glass

the desk's crucifix past.

Harm of bodies on lightning tracks,

blown circuits that move like mouths

while brains drip in the gutter.

Mates of death's seductive shadow

shitting on sun drenched brick.

Kisses of derangement

sliding to the oily floor.

Basking in the solemn flatulence

of these rubbery angels

pacing the carpets

a raving sky laid down

with soiled light

and broken celestial mirrors

sad eyes depart the skeleton

and ask barbed questions of beauty

and the love that failed

on a cardboard cross.

Shit sculpted for the river

with its shapely pride.

Mid nights in glass

where I suffer from the strength of your beauty

shells of my forgotten past

leering from the highway's forest pockets

and underscored embers in lime

stunned in your mercury evening

fountain's birth where I address the object

slave to your dewstruck inward eyes

like the sun thinking

the sheath of a reluctant moon

should be his habitat

for switching earthly places

her green and grey lacework of days

on the vines of a grid

quaking.

To fly through a cracked glimmer

in the gut tanks of the great facade

out the orb of consciousness

into a womb of laughing mazes

I follow your form

across these melting and re-frozen floors

and feel your taste closing over my mouth

in dawns of braided worlds

where I am the stone pan

under your knifelike river

lightning in the light

of your divine mouth

that ceaseless remembrance carries

to watch your engines purr

against the tides of space

and catch my departing soul.

Through the blades we built

in pixilated skies,

through the long reeds

and the silk torn

on a line for drying,

the articulate breezes surge

in like competing oceans,

through the handiwork of a moment

torn loose into the void

the fog is eclipsing us.

When we met in aisles of cloth

or shelves of reels and cylinders

strangers to the language of our birth

rediscovering rapture,

the linked fires of much mapped galaxies

hurtling across our fond marquee

and seeds of structured fate cast aside

were in our unreached recesses

brewing alien bones.

You enter on a grid of glass,

walking through the many cracked

pools of reflection.

Grains of light

from a spray of ice

on cemetery ground.

The eyes go up

to the floors in thin air

paving basements

with fans of spilled milk

the whine of metal shelves

on wheels.

Desolate highways

masked first in fur of trees

and then the stillborn leaves.

Skull welded to a narrow road

cut seed

of a violent cell.

Thick helmet

of many underwear

elastic knots and layers

speaking memories

of fond flesh

treading the cusp

of raw eternity

together in the light

of teething globes.

Tides on a knife

the dust raked

special effects

of time on spiralled wax

and charcoal lipstick.

The hedge cut yard and wired sky

a nest of cones from which to be reborn

her braids lighting up the foothills

and the surging of their paths

around a harnessed magnet's kiss

and a pool beneath the separated mountain.

Shaded by the leafy stalks

above a broken bridge

veins move at the speed of light

in departed dimensions

she carves me from a static rib

and departs the glass shelter

of my sleep stuck arms

the bright harm of inverted corners.

In terms of place, to be

plunked down over and over

by an unwilling self,

thrice removed from

the decisive moment,

the rivers are the rails of

something sifting through the trees

the scene of gathered light bulbs

at a first crowning,

I am alive in stone that is the sky's deposit

I am frowning in glass that is bent around the moment

my chair of echoing plaster

follows me along the tracks

of furry meteors,

I spill candlelight,

the photo lined hallways of a dream

follow me to the helm

of all cashed beams,

skin soft for the rope surroundings.

If I enter into the bitch

and time stalls, permitted

this fall in suspension

shall be my banner

and fulcrum drive,

the wheel of spines

is a city's height

that rolls with her acceptance

and the harbors are

stricken with labor,

and the shore mapped

with cloth-torn acres,

wet lightning that is akin to an indoor moth,

the meat levers of scissor limbs

at work on matchbook coffins,

garlic tassels and dune

photographs that ache for the rain

on a train of bookcases

strung forms of light.

To avert the blood

and see the vault of heaven

constructed like a snail shell

descending out of time

an angry tusk, whole arsenals

of flowers spilling from

anointed glass,

one smooth table at horizon's dawn,

three weapons of coitus

and a mortgaged womb,

stammering in the coils of

a great soul's antique apparatus.

On upper story lawns

of groomed rooftops

and ripening siloes

sits the empty flask, drained forever

of its potency and dry

beyond the roads

of consciousness it rides

she conquers time's analysis

with a liquid fist

fragile as a nuclear plant.

Simmering in bedded fire

some robots

will have to be punished,

some dreams of patterned will

led out of living space

through an empty corridor,

your flame of organic nature

tempered by collision with water,

framed in mating the most

opposite numbers,

beauty of rains and seasons all

beyond reason,

scythes of bronze

sky scraping floors

far up in the air from

where we know our clipped roses

spit tossing in a wayward constellation

groove touched by a film of pearls