Wind billowing is not

expressing itself.

Long panels of sanded wood

groan without pain,

a brain-hinge gives way in reaction.

The sky is eating shit.

Clouds make poor ribbons

around the poison sun.

I learn to love the breeze

that doesn't make the weather report.

I learn to bleed and die

quietly.

The beauty of Satan is beauty,

that's the beauty of Satan

beauty with no moral meaning

no directed plan, just energy flares

sent up by an unquiet spirit

who suspects he's a flake of God,

God without authority getting

bashed in the skull,

and all the better for it.

Look at the cunt of the growing forest

lacerated with exposure by the moon.

Make a death wait til the depth of noon.