She lives with her hands in the earth.

She watches the chickens.

Branches have fallen in the backyard.

She rewires the wires.

Stones from the garden

line the walk.

No one is a match for any other.

Galactic freckles

pushed by some far off expanse

dimes washed by rain

just a scattered handful

ghosts waiting in airports

ghosts waiting in bus stations

weight carried back to its maker

in a bronzing time

aisles built by frost

between the deepest trees

Cliffs of cheddar

crowned by garlic boulders

herbs and mushrooms sliding

into boats of burning leaves

a clay mask on a satin pillow

body of eyeballs wrapped

in curls of written hair

poured forth from neon skin

transparent scalp that rides

a squirming mass of brain

slithering to fill each limb

windows lit with violet glass

mouth packed with transmitting wires

church of blood with three delicious fires

Black sky rolled back by blacker sky

cave's furthest reaches

rippling with cool new yellow light

bright ointment on the lips of the well

limbs reaching to be inked

near its darkest center.

Yarns to be held by fate

and flowing over junkyard lots

apples polished in ghostly carts.

Ditches creased with oil

near the concrete path.

Your body will be made

into a hive of instructional booklets

all talking at once.

Rotten fruit will fall from the sky.

Your technocratic tramp stamp

will ride you home.

Money will enfold you

in your bed.

The secrets of these molecules

will become yours.

Your toilet and kitchen combo cube

will make your vomit

into golden chains.

A sacred script

will magnetize your brain.

Nude scenarios will sprawl

all around you.

These medicines will help you

take onboard the new equipment.

Mechanical assistants

will walk around inside you.

Your boss will now alert you

from the confines of your head

in the new and improved voices of the dead.

Jugular sorrows

ring throughout the embryonic cave

spackled with moldy frosting

ornaments of terror

and electric frost.

Shopfronts done up in wrapping paper

never to reopen.  Sanctuary streets

closed to all future traffic.

A dream of perfect silence and repose.

Distilling fury seated

in the center of the rose.  A canvas

bleak as stone, and just as beautiful.

A zone of forced fecundity

bleeding jagged fragments of the past.

The blossom cased in unreflective glass.

A road that swallows up the wound

is never to be found.

Look at the heaving ground

glinting with unearthed blades,

look at all the old wars revived

with such sorry flesh.

The mesh of natures

can never be at peace.

Hard won patches

liquid lamps adjoined

melted into blood

and muffled deep.

This canopy against

the rain of planets

and rings of supernatural ice

jeweled fangs against the mist

one burning eye.

Beneath the crust of a battered planet

clinging to a cot with silver wings

canyons had always called to me

some fragrant abyss,

some flowing curtains

smoke draping all the bedrooms

of the damned

now the shelves lined with urns of ash

so neatly, brightly labelled

names that ring the rafters of this tomb

the ribs of some grim prophylactic womb.

Flakes of old lives on film

carried by a stream of molten wreckage

tongues pooling in a furnace mouth

purple vines of an unsettled south.

Naked forms on barrels drifting

through smoke battered arches and

nudging the machinery of dreams.

In cycles a quartz lady screams.

Ladders are floating

and bending in air

each link is a painted portal

through stunned clouds

to blue playful bodies

over rutted crests

of cemetery hills

mushrooms blooming

from the footsteps

of the devils of the dawn

blankets of leaves

arrange a crux around

my phosphorescent torso

root's poison pulsing every branch

sap lit with oil of caverns

egg's map of the deathless depths.

Blossoms on the waning tree

bright thistle mouths

shaking a video frame

squirrels munching on a lit fence

currents dancing over lonely lanes

beneath a granite tower

paths over the mountain

carry slow moving dogs

each one the same white color as the snow

Blades of raw inertia

make war upon

an individuated corpse.

You tried to plug their breaking dam

with your flesh: they pulled you out

and cursed you for the flood

that they unleashed.

You wasted your martyrdom

on a horde of ingrates.

Now they celebrate

your willingness to be killed.

There is no place for humanity

among humankind.  Stop trying

to save the masses.  Their doom

will be yours.

Imagine a sober Bukowski.

Imagine a self-indulgent Buddha.

Imagine a profane, sarcastic Christ.

Imagine an anti-war, anarchist Muhammad.

Imagine a Gandhi who no longer gives a fuck.

Throw their stories away

throw their respect away

throw their values away

throw their entertainment away

throw their beliefs away

throw away the cancer that cures

their cancer.  They have no answers.

REQUIEM

From the entrails of dead dogs,

from the trickle of cracked brains,

from the copulation of oiled androids

comes a sad and disembodied song.

The surfaces change

but the depths remain the same.

And now those depths

are swallowing your fake world.

There is no escape

from entire lives lived in falsehood,

no relief to be found

behind another clotted mask,

no mercy in the grip of your

monotonous and automatic master.

From the pink blood of shells

the sea vomits up in froth,

from the chains wired back together

no matter how many times they are broken,

a tuned cacophony rises much too carefully

and the simulation continues.

Truth was stillborn in this world

and its cells fade out like tendrils into a void.

People are social beings: we want

to be noticed by our killers

as we flail down ruined avenues,

glad to be jeered as we die:

better to be mocked by these lunatics

than left alone in silence.

Even the soul of solitude

abides in an inverted violence.

From infant skulls in welded doorways,

from a land of pepper and a land of salt,

from banquet tables left sideways

by a row of tortured grapes...

Want more poetry?  Fuck you.

This is mine.  Write your own

in your own weary blood.

Stuff it down with rags and hack and hack.

Gears chew human meat

to produce utilitarian architecture.

These structures drain emotion

and increase numb obedience.

This is to be celebrated

with every square on the calendar.

We are glad to be civilized

cleansed of all identifying features.

Hate your neighbor within

the limits of the framework.

Express your angst with impotence

to make the blow go down smooth.

This is the joy of democracy.

Our brave enforcer androids

share our sophisticated ideals.

Wound them and you shit

on the storyboard.  Don't

muss the narrative with such

unnecessary feeling.  Extinction

comes for all, it must be

greeted with humility, maturity

and wisdom.  Call out

the glorious names of some

old books.  Our savior has

arrived in cellophane.

Crucify unruly spirits

starting with the errors of the brain.

We share the deep deliciousness

of pain.

Looking for a spout of unknown water

that broke a rock and fell into the sky

wings of paper fallen from departure

gems of plastic fallen on the roots

of disappeared trees.

A crushed salt grain

blown along by violent whispers

powder clinging to the bones

of a chicken who was born alone.

Monkey bars adorned with jeweled thorns

horns honking at a moon kite

suspended over sagging streets

shop windows show elastic machinery

paint stirred by a metallic oar

the gloves she threw from a bone balcony

to the stone floor time machine

are worn by spirit waves

melted slowly by their shapes of raging color

the horizon of a bedded glade

clawed buttons

leaf by leaf to pause the old tornado

the lifespans of electric shadows

rising to be bathed in responsive clay

armchairs facing off

on an enhanced glacier

swirls of dirt in a gelatinous layer

benedictine fog.

Black veins of transfigured daylight

run over bright coal and cracked roads

clock hands reflect on pools of melted idols

gold in the eyes of fools and gray desire

downward knives of a consuming mouth

avoided by hang glider.

Hordes with neon masks

the labyrinth is wet with rain

late nights are lost on a steaming highway

wings are active in the water clock

vast distances where black holes bloom

a thread of vision diving

to get out of the arid spotlight

vast wastelands of bright broken things

buried buttons and circuitry chirping

these bodies are forgotten thoughts

from some run down machine

that captured a meat brain to torture

and reproduced the bones that are lost

a plastic fraction of the infinite cost.

Rings of painted impact

dwarf the halo

quiet roads and their ways

always disrupted dawns

hills of lunacy's arrival

where hairless caterpillars glow

and stoic anvils hold

the corners of styrofoam pyramids

down to the poor clay

of civilized earth

ripples leave the sky in tatters

from the thought that popped

its gray conception

riverbeds strewn with

armies of forgotten clothes

the folds of a carnivorous rose.

A veil of ash

a path of coins

holy is the stained earth

and all the flowing streams thereof

the weight of many apples

on a hill of bone and branches

zones of pink neon blankness

between pools and lawns

I am a pinball laughing in spirit

watching the luck of others

move me around

sleeping in the sound of pouring gravel

born on a porno wave

of glossy inhabitants

over the hotel rooms in fury

angels estranged in flight

naked days of the inverted slave.

I once was a human spirit,

I camped alone on many plateaus.

The contemplative nimbus

grew many tendrils.

I rode one up into a golden sky.

I mutated in a cloud, something

deeper than my cells

hammered its way out.

I flew home without a doubt,

my flesh in tow.  I strut

these alien sidewalks

looking for a strange job.

Swamps are blooming

purple flowers for my demon seed.

The round hills seethe with desire

and topple old financial structures.

The social system is

winding its weird way down

as I sharpen my illicit crown.

A monument of bones

becomes a bird home

these roads are ribbons

floating under geodesic domes

the symmetry of souls

reflects on water

split orbs rotate

in transparent walls

the trains of earth

are leaving through a cloth sky

pulling all the fabric from the maze

canals of milk and cubbyhole homes

a draped ecstatic tongue

muffled in the twin zone

void's keeper on the run

death's angel in a crystal cone.

THE FUTURE GLAZE

The empire is still filled with cruelty,

but its embers have cooled.

Chrome surfaces have taken over,

cyclical announcements insinuate

vague danger, but specific threats

have all but vanished.  Voices vacuumed

no longer plague us.  Now the quiet

carries the blade.  Latex kisses

smear the cold away

and replace it with a numb ache.

The cup was passed so gently

by a goddess who had quelled the storm.

We worshipped all her fingers in our brains.

Already our language had fallen.

She showed us a deeper technique.

People were swarming each other,

they needed to be separated.

Replicas confuse the interactions

and can play even better with genes.

We had seethed our way to scything

now the seeing eye can edit dreams.

These words cannot grab what I breathe.

All the cream of elimination

cannot gather steam.

The mist of electronic bugs

has entered the cauterized seam.

Resistance is too painful to conceive.

Symbols of death splattered with color

doors of wheat and mud

that won't come off

ladders climbing over wretches

with their taken legs

ripples razor erasing names

pits paved with cooling metal

hills crowned with agitated light

graves laughing

in their symmetry of fearless sleep

tongues frozen by the echo of the deep.

Electric gnats are smitten

by a fecal wind

bridges groan between

self devouring kingdoms

the spines of spray painted palaces

are brittle mud wasp nests

plastic twine grows

from a croaking data center

enveloping the fields

of piss wet tents.

The hills eat rain in abundance

clouds edged with a hard mercury

the strains of imprisoned guitar

stone walls of sound

spice fertile in the desert

blooming thorn for thorn

sparse magnolia

no line to the horizon

no horizon at all

I'll go farther past the outskirts,

to lie down in a bed of salt.

You who are born into this prison,

don't obey its laws.

The keepers have no reward to give,

nor do the inmates yearn for escape.

They have grown to like

these recorded hallways.

They enjoy the chatter of friendly robots.

If you are alive inside, you must

be willing to die: for the trouble, for a laugh,

for a hot demise or an unlikely rescue,

for the art of unwilling eyes.

Let Pandora's footnote open.

Let the lesser lights rise from the sea.

All the bird songs belong to one body.

Flying carpets were the way

over the carnal rooms of garish glory.

A beam scanned quick brown rabbits

where the slabs of the dead lay.

Crown foliage of broken souls

bloom without highways,

without language as a buffer

hand down disposable doors,

chains of an antimatter ceiling

and stars so mechanical

buckets of sub lyrical suds.

The wings of death are everywhere

the thrum of captured time

in forced reversal

every car looks sinister.

They piss against each other's wind,

trying to reach the hook in the sky.

The blinking graph is inevitable.

Men like moss will live

under its umbrella.

Sidewalks slither past

cloaked hyacinth beds,

their heaping fragrances.

The same river, the same dream.

Disintegrating into nothingness

in a dance of blades together.

I patrol in a rolling desk chair

the hordes like an antique choir

trading wire for wire

cat's tread printing a clay driveway

cloud fortresses of fictions that are gone.

RETROGRAM

A thousand screeching

free jazz whistles

assembling a bird sphere.

Rags of the former empire

flapping on a beautiful nude corpse.

Seductive scarecrow of reanimation

the file drawers between

harp strings of ribs.

Looking over a crimson ledge

to see if the powerful whispers

come from an infinite mouth.

The emptiness of mercy

in the clutches of an insane beast.

In the tomb of love

entrails alive with the divine

spaghetti head, a senseless goddess forming

the DNA that hates your DNA.

MINISTER OF SPECIAL FECES

This is your kingdom

you who rule with an iron smile.

The voice of a fucking fool

enfolds the world.

See how everything is getting

better and better?

That's your magic at work.

We are free to be possessed.

Free to be processed.

Free to simulate joy

as we walk in your pages.

Free to get fucked by robots

as the moon spirals down

on the earth in a final equation.

Strange how the smaller celestial body

takes over in death.

Strange how the dust of ages

is shaped by a gust

meaning nothing at all.

All the fallen idols

still attract worshippers.

After all, they are on their backs

now, they can be touched.

The flocks communicate

with decay.  They are proud

to sacrifice their consciousness

to your computer generated

syntax, the prison bars

of your thrilling paragraphs.

We need the sound of your asshole

to fornicate with our souls.

You are our favorite whipping boy,

our favorite proud reflection.

These chains were made

and they can be unmade.

The elastic lies deeper.

The throne of chains is dazzling

but its jewels can be taken.

Sweat paints the sanctuary

of penetrating light.

Blood is boiled away.

The night of stars needs no day.

Where is my cape of ancestors?

Didn't they want the bone

beneath the skin to be filled

with dreams?  Don't I float

on infinite cells?  These years

cannot remember.  Only I can remember.

These chains of April are actually

the chains of December.  They

come off like rain, like the flakes

of a spiritual pain, manifesting ash.

Hallways open to the outside,

the sash of multi panelled

cloth doors.  The diamond formed

by all these intersections

resides with the sacred whores.

The oil of their foreheads

is anointed with my psychic wars.

Luminous artifacts

rise from the dying body

hatred of time and place

that plants a smashing seed

lids of the once forgotten

popping like frenzied eyes

beneath a bloodshot moon and scythe

wounded machinery and fleshy wheels

the script of skin is sliced and peeled.

Apartments in a silver painted pinecone

crimped cords climbing to clotted vents

stairs descending from bright painted ships

to platforms of cemented fecal matter

the eggs of many scattered birds

their slick seductive contours

all captured by decaying words.

Positioned on this planetary chunk

some steaming neighborhood that drifted off

I sit beneath a thatch of goldenrod and bees

watching the old moon disappear

into some further data

no memories link like worms

to this disc or its forcefield

scenes shift so many times their outlines burn

puddles of metal glisten

with what reflections learn

when the spirit has flown away

too late to kiss the healing flesh

bled deep into illuminated roots

the titter of distant tongues

far from a slab of frozen mud

cracked ribs of this latest version

In the silence of fallen birds

your fumes carry futile thoughts

a highway of bright poison fog

driven up into a charcoal sun

with a cluster of broken flagpoles

deities of unbound space

swooping down to insult

these reeking tides of sour meat

dominated by nuclear rainbows

shoots of bamboo from an ancient well

protruding through a ring of moss

hooves following a river of spilled coins

burnt souls and the distortion of stone

eyes of ink in a web of dripping gum

from a jungle of mutated cum.

In this shell of divided lights

alone with raging space

eyes strung from a dancing arrow

bones vibrating to a vortex song

hyacinths of steel shake off the simulated water

circular plateaus rise from unnatural earth

fungal hands sprout magic mushrooms

skin gives birth to writhing skin

cliffs of wheat glued tight

to a silver pile.

A portal swirls in copper painted skies

open to the realm of time trapped lovers

latching onto tendrils of sentient rain

climbing out of pools I've given

with the urgency of sculpted blood

these train cars are transparent plastic boxes

a skull of frozen ink

weeping tears of wax of labial altars

up through the frame of ozone

with a silk chute and a lightning tongue

all the fire of these frail connections

spent in ruin while the pages run.

I am the evil spirit

that haunts creation.

A descendant of failure

who learned to succeed with claws,

limping through the trees and singing.

The echoes are gone.

There is the peace of not

wanting to know anything more.

This place and I, how we tore

at each other, as if it ever

mattered.  In the darkness of my guts

I know the light comes from death.

Collapsible mountains,

shores of rock that sigh

and let go of surfaces.

Paths that unwind like snakes

and find the honey at the edge of fire.

Roads of mutilation

push through my sack of bones

the industry of careful slaves

jabbing flesh with flesh

floating eyes that never turn to the depths

skies pulsing with such vagrant fires

veins latching to a perfumed cage

the waters mapped in gold

the instant thirst of vague contraptions

solemn faces of obedient machines

dragged away by ghostly embroidery

melted coins decorate secretly twitching eyelids

under the mask that grows into a city

and the grip of its ecstatic grimace

horn rimmed alkaline lactating grid

The hot new future has gone

to the meadows where the phantoms play

and rocks write books on water

chessboards of glass in dripping stacks

assemble from fiber optic air

their own favorite pieces

scenery is speaking to the dream

of a single face

courts of empty speech erupt inward

pouring shiny clay into

seal-safe basements

where strings of ethereal steel

play the walls with cables

long docks from a plastic ramp of state

where mute men fish from dim vibrating piers

the fluorescence of these darkened years.

Waves of melting engines

overlapping shrouded streets

bone bright skeleton soul

spitting breath of moths

at crackling streetlights

crooked footprints crossing

shaded wet cement

among the plastered tents.

I miss the dancing and the beds

of local legends

dawn glazed by frayed delight

of deep disintegration

heart of deranged time touched

by the acid of such wild souls.

Rooftops under wreckage of the sun

are strewn with ruined beauties

the tarot of the damned

painted in the raw on hot brick walls.

The blood of androids runs the gears

the detailed stains are gorgeous

as the shapes teeming in wood grain

planed and polished and seen from a bed

dressed up in Roxanne's underwear

hungry for mirrors that don't bark back

slotted deep in the eternal unnumbered hotel

claws caught in satin obligations

an easy flight to the moon

and back with antigravity burns

body of mouths, husk of grave disorder

in its own electric form

soup kitchens in the cliffside

the poison of a river made a plastic rope

all the talking tongues in perfect form

the tone of atoms breathing in water

foam rolls beneath an empire of hair

and an upside down sky

all the yielding of a weapon's eye.

I'm not waiting for the coming

I'm not waiting for the time

I'm not waiting for the woman

I'm not waiting for the hour

I'm not waiting for the moment

I'm not waiting for the resolution

I'm not waiting for the revolution

I'm not waiting for the sacred cause.

Wheels of lacquer

rods of unspeaking ascension

and blossoms of bright stars invaded

lips that vent intoxicating vapors

walls of veiled cement

the milk of silent shadows

night for day and day for night

the fond shapes switching sides

in bronze rooms rearranged

the torch of a strange tongue

right angle to a lower rain

pitchfork caught in the strainer of the ages

that doesn't work quite right

the hitch that is God's fear

superb descending smear

of the angel's rear

and games of weightless resolve

for no one to solve.

Jellyfish brains in a radiant tank

shapes of land forming on the surface of the sun

front row seats in a shell filled with mercury

trails of torn cloth

snaking past metallic avenues

oil on the gears of time machines

is oil from the hair of angels

locks that click backwards

in the churning night

fame swallowed by the shaken light.

Variables turn like salt and butter

on the tongue, with a smirk I enter

my contemplative phase,

trailing all the embers

of the days I burned,

alone by the riverside, crushed

ferns around my muddy feet

like an alphabet of mangled

bird skeletons.

The serpent joined me on the cross

my golden limbs were weary

tables shone from a far off court

the appetizers served were twinkling on tiny forks

and trays were overturned by liquid seed

I'm a riff collector

a sack of skulls travelling on flying carpets

inside the velvet chains of night

bleeding down drawbridge lane

tumbling along the descending cables

you are just a fleet of outlines

prim shadows cast by a fading light

while the raid of doves

plucks at knobs of bright

ungathered lust

Electric shock in painted aftermath

lips brim with sap

scarlet rivulets and sculpted gardens.

Oil polished wood and

her walking on cement, a slab

next to the racks of raging cloth

shanks flashing and a mythic dog

singing next to the meat monger

as the neon grows slowly stronger.

Caught in the swirling

painted brambles

thorn tongues and climbing spirals

combed pebbles of edible bone

shores of wet clay

carved into writhing bodies

mouths pouring golden dust

blades fogged by faint

evaporating worlds

Lust and anger, twin rulers

of my life, who I love

for inspiration.  Idols mapped

by flashing grids on either

side of the darkened kingdom's

gate crushed closed by

the panicking hordes.

Crystal keys ascending tarnished

on conveyor belts of gold

as the air gets old.

Where is my friendly dragon?

Jack the Rabbit sits on a fence

watching the grass get nervous.

AMERICA FIRST

Jesus Christ was a child molester,

and this was his favorite playground

for a time.  The toys shined

and the people died, or just

stopped multiplying.  New bodies

were exchanged for new careers.

New lives were exchanged

for new forms of death.

The markets rose.

Souls descended into the murk

of vague imaginings: we couldn't

confirm their existence.

The machine was seen

as the only thing truly

deserving of a spirit.

And the markets rose even higher,

so high that their creators

could no longer comprehend

their own achievement: and this

was the only mystery they deemed

worthy of worship.

Even their hatred was

a kind of worship.

Especially their hatred.

In this collapsing star

we are united by the kiss

that never happened

and hung on its yearning hooks

plastic vapors crawled the skin system

sheaths bristling with conscious currency

warm pockets for the coldest feelers

fresh storms of blood spattered cash.

Spat into a clearing

with hateful phrases clinging to my flesh

printed in each cell, each

with its special nano-fortress of delicate poison

each fork of reason wrecked

by teeming wreckage,

each fucking word.

Born to a eat a stone

and hack it out in massaged fragments,

born to be eaten by the wounds in time

and then by time itself, stunned into silence

by your beauty's lies

the appearance of a scheming tide.

Rain on tin hats

body of sound, body of torn flesh

reassembled in weaponized blood

shot from spaceships on autopilot.

Blanket of skulls with lipstick

and charcoal eyes, ghostly tongues

lashing from lines of bone.

Waves of disrupted soil

coalescing with mutant thorns.

Burns on the idol's face and hands,

guts radiant behind the sealed orifice.

Flowers laid open by relentless sun

blades turning around a lens

stalks rising for a hand that is gone.

She was a storm of the inkwell

and a spirit of flame

gliding over dying corridors

with a semblance of eternal feet

their steps outlined in acidic gold

chains leading to a balcony

of birds in flowing figure eight

some unbronzed omega

encircling these fists

gripping frozen raindrops.

Her oval shapes and

shade dipped dragonfly wings

car doors on a missile fallen

legs descending

to lead spanked pavements

bleeding beads

of broken unplugged light

the wood grain of an unmasked sky.

The weather of the veins

is a different weather.

Sleds clatter against fragrant ice

and scrape down sealed hills.

Rails of conceived light

fired by the lonely car roaring

from a dream of freedom

that was mapped onto a prison conduit.

Drums of water talking

across moss canyons and reshaped straw

harps plucked by an evaporating law

on the stage where lonely whores can caw

a lamb with lion's claws

on the operating table

quite raw for experiment

shackled to the love of manic animals

bejeweled without the succor of luna

floating framed parallelogram bones

A BEING

All are gone, yet all are congealed

into the one.  Not just their traces;

their absences are a large part

of what makes him up.

His house of many empty rooms

is what he is.  Somewhere between

solitude and all the departures,

a loneliness that never quite

happened.  A hummingbird floats

out of an opened hand.

The parkbench rooted in

formerly molten metal

is where he used to stand

before he became the one,

before all the others disintegrated.

Worlds came apart in their last imaginings,

as their armor of flesh fled

his forgetting that remembers them

decorating abandoned spaces.

Slapped into gear by mad epiphanies,

watching ditches revealed

as rivulets to the ocean,

lured into ringed heat

by the depths below.

Painted edges crackling with erosion

hooked highways towed

by incomprehensible matter,

trees fawning for the wet spasm

energy reacting without verbiage

ferns clustering on spider feet.

Worlds in pockets

of the wounded sanctum

cells vested in the strength

of mysterious death.

AFTER SIGNING OURSELVES INTO BIRTH

In the storm of bones

too tiny to be seen

by naked eyes, something

with human curves adorns itself

with machine blossoms

and the typeset of altered letters

that make mute cells

simulate speech.

Water isn't reaching as it flows.

The plastic cage that flashes

around the sun is mostly

in your mind.  Nor was it made

like a corkscrew or

the doll that represents

a ballerina.  The scenery is brass

in your museum of dying thoughts.

I'll polish it for you

until it erodes all the way through.

I'll let the light come hard

from bitter corners.

Your prison immunizes me

against its own seductions.

My existence is not its eruption

or its end.  As the body has many contacts

and the soul has few friends: we share

only our contract with death.

One by one my lives all

came to an end, each phase

was torn from the canvas.

I was left like a sterile tank

creaking faintly in an empty room.

I looked for the mountains of snow,

for the lots made magic by bicycle tires,

for galleries written in steam

and dried by sunlight.

The moments of mercy and grace

were all used up, I was hung

like a smoking fuse

from flickering rafters.

Now this world is frozen shit,

but it still blooms.

It is stricken with isolation,

yet it flows throughout.

Yearning is the only doubt.

You can seal the quartz doors

within walls of smoke

string a beauty together

with animate rags

and goat blood soup

still she goes floating

over the disco habitats

like a winged eel

in frills of eternity's preview

a butterfly pinned to a plate

doesn't watch from magnetic earth

the teeth of ethereal gears deprived

of hide made to be eaten

bones achieving in a naked dream

Valleys extended around a willing planet

glinting with volcanic light

paths of glass blood fogged

from the turgid interior

kite strings of a laughing series

trailing over plateau green

When highways trail off

and blood handprints in the moss

become separate gardens

hinges creak in many fortress walls

I am walking with a drifting forest

strutting backwards on its locked lakes

letting the sky's choruses pour

wrapping bones in frayed reels

a grid of gilded frames descends

on blank paved lots

and painted concrete elves

the scraping of chain tied steel boxes

all the egg weight of swivelling hips

gone to dispersing space

the veins of thicker doors

seed flung talking like skulls of water

fumes aching to make skin grade

deer's bed beneath a cone bright pine

Disarmed at the halo

fallen by the wagon in the sand

drinking rivulets of daylight

stripped down to merciless angles

phantoms rocking on the wall between eras

mocking ecstatic agony

bricks march on ant legs

to be one with the putty

stages set with yellow blades

forming agitated furniture

histories that harmed the name of God

a veil sliding down resurgent towers

thorns branching from the kink in a written circuit

falling star in a plastic spoon.

Shower me with eyelashes,

stand next to me in the rain.

Observe your hold on me

is gaining tides.  Let the blades of time

glance off one another harmlessly.

Let fantasy rise to inhabit

this cursed flesh and sullen air,

climb to me on your hair,

the long braid I am holding

in a balcony of frieze collage.

See the mirrors in the domed courtyard

beaded with tiny frogs,

their sucking fingers and frowning mouths.

Let me put a long tongue on your shine

and your frills like razors

melted into silken symmetries

on your chest like vines

a garden goddess who has stood for ages

springing into my hands

like sinewy eggs in velvet

thank your stormy graces

your cracks that taste faintly of lime

your delicious slime.

In the maze of twisted twilight

bones are falling from a cloud

on the long abandoned sidewalks

spirits walking in their shrouds

carry battered blood blurred letters

from a lost and scattered book

brains with spider legs

cracking melted sand

hot buttons of panels and layers

a pillow case of quills

tattooing the squirming sleeper

a doorway on a naked head

the voices of the overwhelming dead

the reins of the rain are plugged in

to birth canal stigmata

fiber optics of these shrinking hands

stitched expanses of this foreign land.

Glass bedroom boxes

floating on pink flames

becoming the middle of nowhere

long lines of rabbit foot luck

all made from radiant plastic fibers

glowing from the dark

that made them strong

I remember canyon bottom paths

rich in mythical animalia

I was tractor beamed to siphon

the mystical seeds of my soul

libraries piled on my back

behind the curtains

of the hypnotized hereafter

tunnel to my willing guts

alive behind this cemetery wall

I throw confetti at the bastard

cheer the wild vitals in him

that have gone astray;

I fool the fishes into

jumping over his laughter,

while he's alive: he was a son

of the last magma

boiling deep before the cool age

splitting rocks without a hammer

breathing fire and fiery ropes

caught light besieged by dancing towers

the lure of these slow motion hours.

He's ragged after sampling their flavors

still an alien in his skin

raw spirit imprisoned

coin counters tracing the walls

diamond rods uphold the velvet order

signposts of quiet glory bask

in the neon wrought before the fall.

Razor moon

on a hundred nights of love

ruin running over with young blood

dugouts shining with suds of chemical death

been bronzed in the alleyway toaster

years in coma have been secretly meaningful

drawers open in the twilight

wasted treasures pop out in bunches

the fountain swallows its vibrations

and the clay eels cool on a dusty step

androids in artificial shadows

the grand steel has a grim reputation

and mounds of sand stand in time

ravaged only in imagination

You have chosen the machine

for a brother, and maybe

it can keep you company now.

The void will sway with you

as you drown within it.

Congratulations on your humble irony,

on your mute grasp

of imprisoning civilization.

Fuck the material that made you.

It didn't work out.

The mercy of castration

will reach you first.

My gelding will not awaken

what little is left of you.

Thanks for reaching oblivion quickly

so we don't have to watch you squirm.

It would have been uncomfortable

to find that you had a soul.

That skin suit really drove you wild.

You always scratched at it

trying to take it off.

Now you have nothing left to pierce.

You have found out

that your consciousness died earlier,

and it remains dead deep on the outside,

as it was already dead close inside you.

You lived with the corpse of your spirit

as an unwilling partner,

and now in unseen space

you experience only the oblivion

of angelic inertia; the innocence

of your total evil is plain as a wasted day.

You float: you float with the turds,

because you are a despicable turd.

You float despicably because

that's all you can do.

You seed was such a curse

from the beginning, and

your egg was even worse.

Go ahead and smother your birth.

Monumental ooze

from the sagging walls of time

new anti-temples are erected

tongues of ice penetrate

the xylophone spine

fireflies swim under my skin

and rearrange vegetable matter

stages are lit by captured moons

entangled in orgasmic torment

by clenched cliffs

and simmering guardrails

highways moved aside like dry leaves

the shimmer of a watching screen

stories dripping down a clean

cut of galactic meat

angels landing with their bloody cleats.

You'll be a blessed earth

pierced by all these

attacking seeds.  I have

my scarecrow outpost,

I have my shelves all lamp lit

for the coming storm of pulchritude.

Aisles rained upon by rotten fruit

sashes cast aside in sudden labor

moons are straining at the dome

of stunned habitation.

Mirrors turn around

in a churning wall.

Mattresses go flipping

through the paradox.

The ground howls for fuel

that the mule can't give.

The eyes in all the curvature live,

swamps drink liquid fire

and reverberate vampire hearts,

old walls of stone are a home

for lichen.  The plateau

of a singing knife,

a bottom drawer for ashes.

Beauty's thud on bone,

the bounds of a disorienting home.

The garden is enthroned.

Naked in a luminous cage

bones crowded by theatrical altars

lips in the web competing with bloody tongues

bronze shoulders projecting astral roads

traffic of ages that eclipses the body

souls pouring over blistered earth

it's rumored electricity yearns

and has found her circuits fit for bursting

tassels of a womb that sings

puppeteering all these dripping things.

In the birth of a new silence

I'll find my bitch and ride

over the decorative cemeteries

and the gilded book of the damned

laughing through the eyes of a peacock feather

painting a whole cliff while smoking

I watch the windows that are empty

and fill them with the dancers

whose lux frames only I have known

I fix the hanging wings with wax

and let them leave the barn

like a stream of cloaked breeze

escaping the zone of robotics

swimming the seam of an inverted valley

lost in kisses I received before the resurrection

spiral staircases dripping with thick genetic material

her devil horns of a satin mask

with lightweight bulletproof backing

I found a path of yarn

strewn through the woods

I saw the colors that follow salamanders

and the colors that reflect the clouds

I saw my corpse kissing a girl

brought back to life with worm tattoos

all the threads were stretching

through me to the harps and looms

that bring them into a sad harmony

pools of wine grow at the airport gate

calendars of glass are shattered

on adhesive rubber doors

caravans of hellish light

fill up these tall garages

layers of captured fumes are painting

walls of gray with soot

a range of lipstick robotics

that hum between

lamps drowned on metal trees.

Between the war of suppressions

I linger and wait, like a good

hyena, for my nasty scraps.

I prefer sluts, I prefer

torn things that glint

with lovely wounds.

I like dented knick knack fragments

and discarded hunks of old technology.

Censorship of dark millenia

has torn a hole in my being.

Shape shifting contours

nevertheless are bowed

hotly into existence.

The poles of android light

and hologram chainsaws

lean into the weight

of tall undead forests.

The shores are washed away

by rafts of flowers

all titles for the unseen idol

cast down on bloody stones.

Common dreams burned down to dust.

Your hunger for meaning

is part of what's wrong with you.

Shit strewn sidewalks

roll out like red carpets.

The gleaming spaceship keeps

producing more.

The scapegoat grows angel wings.

The controlled choir can't help but sing.

The balconies teem with snakes

who can land beautifully.

Language can no longer reveal.

It must be sabotaged to do

its work another way.

Fuck culture, fuck aristocracy.

If we can't do it ourselves,

we can't do it at all.

Daffodils with shark teeth

eat electrode plans.

The beauty queen is a robotic

battering ram.  The living door

holds out its mindless hands.

The sodomized statue stands.

A diamond lull

a boiling stream on pause

the flickering walls of a dim hallway

scenes of birth in the desert

a bead of fire bouncing

on bronze gelatin plateaus

the shapes of a mutated rose.

Petals and thorns are tumbling

down slopes of plastic ice

robot footprints on the boardwalk

long rails of painted twine

the solitude of stripped nights

knife teeth in silk containers

a cliffside office cubbyhole

aglow with a fragmented soul.

In the long and lonely corridors

where light takes form

on the throne where bones don't sit

in airtight bulbs beneath

massive spires of force fielded water

blue jays and red cardinals

flying over black and white squared floors

swinging doors of the faux core generator

one feather drips with burning ink

above the dry bleached sinks

where bloodied water sank through drains

under pines and piles

of leaves and other fallen things

a sperm computer breathes

and cracks the egg of space

one tunnel through erased horizons

holds its shape around an unseen face.

I've been far out on the waves of oblivion

I saw the glitter trickle through the storm.

Flow to me slower, meet me with smoke

at the rotten couch onshore.

Let the trees creak like a faint

protracted snore.

Platforms of dusk

each lit with a copse

linked by mercurial vines

hot ghosts of the telephone past.

I take my roads with me.

My dream of earth is raging in a spire.

Ditches flick by between hills

each holding an undulant light.

There are no weapons here.

Just artifacts of a dreamless past,

dawn's cup on smoldering hinges

that cannot be clasped.

Cracked diamonds are the latest laugh

bulbed screens project them outward

billboard sentience invading somber souls

the shelf life of these sacred holes.

Mysterious night, the luminous insides

of the dragon.  A labyrinthine scowl

envelopes the undergrowth.

Bright penetrating eyes in chains

make up the mortar

of all this dream muscle.

Screens of neon flesh announce

the glyph lines of new songs

that can't be heard.

Wisps rising from the shores

where I once smoked.

Seasons tangled in the corridors

of stateless continents.

Slim reeds in a zone

of so much frozen milk.

The dragon's ears are bats

but its tongue is silk.

The sky hums.  Its messages

are wires for the dragon's wings.

The heavenly machinery

instructed not to hurry things.

Sleep's healing lidded in fire.

Island of lost vital organs

stranded by the one who sings.

With the masters in infinity

the cloak of darkness parted to the core

long walks alone are the only afterlife

stalled engines shimmering

with energy of decay

stunned ministers in the aisles

of their own elaborate iniquity

shorn of all corporate meaning

the desperate adventure is enough

staircases are cutting

glowing stone steps

down the canyon sides

finally water is speaking

in long lines without rhyme

filling machine rivulets

awesome in its terrible need

of fruition to inhabit

the cymbals drive the drums

to unforeseen ceilings

to decorate the bedrooms of the damned

his voice goes pouring through

the time trashed shopping centers

from motorcycle stereo everywhere

and dim framed garages of glory

his soul is one perplexed rotating wheel

So many selves, so many lives,

so many versions.  So many doors

left open to empty houses.

In my own life

I am an awkward stranger.

I wait for the roads

radiated by rain

to fade again.  I watch from

a private window

that follows me everywhere.

It pours the light of day

through ancient walls.

It frames receding faces

that drank from the kaleidoscope.

The moth wing curtains fall

across a plush red empty chair.

My ghost is a drop of sweat

that stares and stares.

It multiplies with a dancer's hair.

The droves descend on graves of mud

and insist on purgatory.

Messages released throughout the maze

tell a different story.

So many lives, so many selves,

all lost in motion.  These shot stars

are the devotion of a soul

gone down to seek disintegrating glory

in the sequel of a black hole

like the skull is the bone that rolls

as a seeker calls the void home

outside that is where the hungry roam

and the emptiness is not alone.

City lights are in my veins

roads winding down to country lanes

from a kissed hilltop

to the remnant of a ruined well

clouds are bundled in a sacred cell.

Bands of copper hold

the spear tip of continuum in check

bright buttons of the armor

that pops open like a scoured shell

clay pinnacles of damned museums

glazed with rage of caged desire

the fetters of a frozen fire.

Your insignia is on me like a knife wound

when I see the ledges in your memory

I go pouring over

owls rearranged in liquid metal

staring from the branches of a submerged soul

make no noises in their dreamless landscape

tubs of spirit paint

floating in a larger basin

of spirit water

harbored by a ring

of yearning force field

printed as the replica you wanted

walking out from narrow alleys

into the expanse that eats the enhanced

and leaves the trace of the original

its hooks in heaven

trained by a hellish love

the seam you left in my tenderness

is a scar from above.

Emerging as a popped bubble

with limbs of putty running

to be molded on these bloody rods

dirty train cars and their trails of dust

drum skin walls and desks of anti-gravity

silk blades and velvet chain transparent chairs

the fine hairs of a last uncharted pasture

lost between the lenses that have probed

eclipsing bolted doors

with waves of mirror cream

these starry nights are catalogued in crayon

and the tongues of stacked cloth

my bewildered eyes on lobster stalks.

The lisp of sunset

on a tipping plane

iced remembrance of

snaking kisses that dove through wrecks

and found their telepathic targets

costumes falling down the river's bank

into consuming water

five seconds from collapse

in a tin white painted tent

deep sleep on pillows of fire

drinking the cave water

painting walls of uneven rock

with hands of clay

fronds of neon nurtured by the mushroom

bridges soaring in their long and tender arcs

world that's gotten into my consciousness

fresh blooded buses of light

raging gently past the diner

octagons of water angels

floating over the hidden graveyards

plastic rams of mercy

stunning plush half hidden mouths

on the rims of a hidden south.

USAI

I will drown you in your own scum.

Christ the enslaver can get fucked.

Your money is brainwash,

your gardens are artificial.

Your country is a prison

for cattle willing to be led.

There are worse demons elsewhere,

it's true: nowhere for you to run to.

I'm talking to a part of my own soul.

In your bus stations I build

cathedrals of burning rubber.

I don't rip your saints from the walls:

I let their barren faces stand

as a testimony of your nullity.

Your spiritual death continues

in every avenue.

You have overflown yourself:

your ugly sprawl has ripped you apart.

I will stab the remnants with hate,

and that hate will become joy.

Your sacred scriptures are reels

of rotten monotony.

You speak with a liar's tongue.

I rip it out with a reverberant pen.

I stake you to the territory

that you have named, and I shit on you.

Picking up the feathers and their eyes

from the floor of a sentient dungeon

I'm a heap of broken plates and tubes

a door that will not open in a murky sea

lips opening inside a sail of leaves

shelves of pleasure stacked on burning cells

tarantella of fragmented selves.

Quiet beds of fish eggs

in stasis beneath shining plastic

bathed in beams of light

a machine's walled monolithic night.

Tongues that swim in vats of paint

a rack for absent brushes

whole solar systems raided

for a peasant's ragged overhang

the corpse's late returning brain.

I read of tribes that are gone

and live in their fragments

I sing the songs of the dead

invisible in the kingdom

of my birth that has defeated me

the pools of souls are empty

bodies are running ragged

on hot lit streets

eyes and teeth of glass

in the puppetry of plastic faces

bumper cars on huge conveyor belts

bronze teeth on a chain

that hangs from a mind that is crying

light's tools are darkened by necessity

painted by the sod that's flung

from torn creation

and the cold transparent wheel

I am among them with my scissors

my cut flowers and my unheard catcalls

ricocheting in the belly of the void

a styrofoam seed in a chute of steel

a wisp of cloud licking

at the temple ceiling

a pack of elaborate cards

left scattered in the cage below.

INVERTED CATHEDRAL

It won't fit in a snowglobe

floors go flowing to pupils of lava

points descending to the core of earth

in ornate catacombs

carnal art in its descriptive spirals

winding rivers of mortar and stone

linking masks along red lit corridors

stairs of reconfigured bone

doors with doors and latches with latches

rind of echoes that deepen

and sharpen against uncaught time

blind mouths singing from a lake of lime

root shaped tunnels with windows that look

into the soul of the dirt

peeled saints on a bed of cinders

torn skirts of the blueprint that hurt.

In the silicon womb

reaching fingers with their bones of light

keep a ticking clock on ice

to circulate the sacred particles slow

bands of solar systems row by row.

Ribbons pouring from the idol's mouth,

tendrils licking at a path of sugar.

Crucified ants making little noise.

Suds rising from a tank of fish

that look like swimming bullets

with faint transparent fins.

Secret ribs of the earth

their caves of ethereal honey.

Cubes of stunned airless space

holding blank hot consciousness.

Smoking closets of divine debris

half shut against a hellish sun

closing liquid eyelids.

Voices in a cloud of wonder

high above a veiled abyss

singing through boxes with magic wire

silk beds on unreachable platforms

fire forming concentric circles

jeweled letters are a list of griefs

of some flashing morning that won't

give way to noon and let the evening

send out boats like minnows

on the sharp frills of a separated sky

and its web cracked wide.

Forms cast in wild garments

quiet as the grave in mind

dancing on the ice that creaks their names

while the chandeliers play cherub's games

and the candles have bulbs not flames

in the sanctuary's swollen maze.

I am a jellyfish dripping

over these floors

watching the squares drink

up the bloody oil

letting the scales of a fake sky

flake and fall from the original

landing in an otherwise empty lot

bricks tangled in ropes of taffy

glass magnifies my third eye

and the multitudes after

lacing dark material together

moon in a cube of harp strings

drawers of compact light

separating from a high tower.

Swimming loops of royal blue

red tipped finger lakes

dead zones of raging gray

skin suit left lying

on a grass blood hill

melting into a map of fungus

swells where we swam

in naked cups of stone

green mud on sacred faces

beams of crude searchlights

flickering over the wounds

in time space

a long graffiti rail

guarding magnetized trains

of hail

THE GREATS

I swim with the greats: I see

how much greater they are than me.

Yet I swim in their midst:

it seems the only place to be.

They are flowing over the portals,

eclipsing all the radiant doors.

Yet the light pours.  It pours

through them like the water of life

they contain.  And it grows from all

creation's needed stain.

At the threshold, they are with me

like a nerve storm.  With me like

a rain of eyelashes, writing me

like nanotechnologic ink.

With me as I'm ripe to sink.

They don't need to feel anymore:

they simply emit.  I am with them

like a lover and not a whore:

but I would be their whore.

Their presence is the lion's

captured roar.  But they

are still wild.  Their departure

is as mysterious as their birth.

They never belonged to man.

Now they belong to God,

their shattering maker.

Their return must come

through the unworthy:

this is the irony that pleases

Him best, for He is Anarchist.

They linger near the rim

of a great fiction: these

necessary devils and their

warped angelic diction.

The fireplace of these

senseless locations

whispers all their names.

And the song frays to extend

its living ends: one burrows within.

OPENING DAY (Alive For Business)

This world was made for liars,

fools, and the obedient.

None lead, or follow: all drift

together on unnoticed currents

far outside the sacred.

What do I call the sacred?

A fist inside a grain of rice.

A flower popping within

a flickering oven.

A prolapsed moonlit sky

leaking bats like tears.

I am the enemy here.

Unseen entertainer of the spheres

with many lips, my rebirth

is a drug trip, having taken this body.

I stack the books of their dead god

with the countenance of some

vibrant poison frog.  There's no home

here in their fog of law: I am their

extinct claw scraping letters raw.

Their underworld can't be counted.

I am hound and denizen

of its accelerating corridors.

A thief's unwanted seed

is my genetic core:

I just mind the store.

Twilight is dawn with style.

Tonight the idols fall before

my fist of ages.

Tonight the fountains call

a thousand eyes.

Life under a false god

becomes more and more expensive.

The lying fabric pulls

at every throat.

The ground chokes.

The land of my birth is only

the closest enemy.

Disillusionment is redundant.

The shores ooze blood

from other dying kingdoms:

escape is even worse.

The end will bring me laughter

over hills of glass

as I slide past the prison casket.

In their parades of death

the robot warrior has won

an artificial kingdom

for the glory of an artificial son.

A pebble gives birth to a planet

without one final word

carved slabs are sliding

down a wet hill of clay

the crossroads have gone out

beyond the highway

I love the clear night while it lasts

tides of mercury wash my empty flask

of a body, eyes inflated rise

to the mirage of the surface

mountains find mirrors in the sky

like shopping malls of grass

expanded through galactic ruin

the paths of lightyears tarnished

by a flying corpse

cranes lifting chunks of molten keys

beneath its borrowed blood dispersing

walls of brine like bedroom curtains

closing on the sleep of many cycles

fences bending like a beauty's hair

for the end that was not there.

Flesh bombs landing on the altar of death

spheres of shimmering darkness

communicating with bodily oil

making the chain of lives dance

with asymmetric energy

to the portal of an unknown sun.

Ruin be damned with deep roots

come groaning to life again

flowers unravel the concrete

poured by aliens before

her eyes hold a whole film reel of faces

shelves of light projecting

past the crack of shade

she shot through everything

putting a disc in place

under the landslide

following the haste

of her jade tendrils

pushing secret doors.

Pour hot tar on your heart.

Turn down the bribe of life.

Listen to the commands

of a robotic echo.

Let the scythe be the only thing

that moves.  Let the plates

beneath the continent

be decorated with human shit.

Celebrate random degradation.

Chew those pigeon feathers

with the meat uncooked.

Let the eaves sing

with the joy of poison rain.

May the stain speak

of stinking excellence.

May the pamphlets that

program disaster be shared

with eyes clamped open

all over the earth.

Heavy metal zen glaze

encased in globes of perfect frenzy

a xylophone of file drawers

a ceiling's interlocking teeth

transparent flesh revealed

in mirror panels

when the roads are quiet I rejoice

though they brought me to this island

in their fury of production

I was pissed into a dawn of milk

the demon of these ruins

trying to be reborn in secret

for infinite eyes to see

A dead end life to decorate

a drawer that opens under the ribcage

with reels of brightly colored wire

and hot split valentines

with winking sightless eyes

cracked angel hands holding a live bat

letting its lightweight bones and soft skin

struggle to fly for the caves again

a library of tattered script

rows of long tables each with only one chair

and huge rugs pregnant with incense

of perfumed psilocybin

fragrant at midnight and

fading in the morning sun

all powered by bicycle pedals

caught spirit moving shadow tons.

I saw division: now I see commonality.

We are all warped.  The fabric is listening.

Storms are in aquarium tanks tonight.

The moonlit ground is bright

as a rainless cloud.

The tree lined paths by the river's edge

host naked ghosts.

A blade swims like a drone

in these sleepy currents.

Shrines of waxen salt rock

epiphanies meeting steel

altar's cradle a pool of eggs

all speckled with the sunlight's dregs.

I see you in an alley between towers

drinking vapors from the air that has no name

painted naked on a brick platform

or riding on a velvet flag

you are the hard beauty

of underground things that rise

shrine's jewel of the hot cave hunter

that comes out in a cartoon waterfall

from broken rock and dripping seams

of wrecked projector screens

wet paths of dancing bones

that careen to thrones of ink

swamps frozen in the light that sinks.

Spikes of kissing fiber

on the chemical shelf

penetrating softly in a spiral staircase

orbs of thoughtful movement

in a parking garage

were left on the back brain burner

for glowing streets of lint

to be landed on in mothlike tandem

our antennas intertwined

and sending letters in powder

boxes of light gashed fingernail movies

I'm stuck on the ceiling

with these drone machines

trying to drop kitten style on your desk

watching the cardboard craters

that turn around the blood of your head

Lucid in a lava rain

a tree of brains

a sword shaped spaceship lit

by dancing nudes

in long bulbous windows

platforms of the damned

in bright hot garb

floating fangs in denture glasses

the angelic transcendence

of total ghouls

through syringe like chambers

into the veins of a dying

intestinal god

and a clearing with transparent pools

right through the fiction of the planet

where each wincing raindrop

can think while it falls

of a light beam birth canal

adorned in rancid chains.

I will rise as a red headed demon

from all the burning bushes

left behind by business as usual

in a visionary trance of inheritance

gift of avatars denied

reclaimed in orgasmic deity

I will gobble your dying society

and shit it out in unfolding architecture

while my body turns to a torn velvet glove

bridges of spinal light are forming

hot links above your cold abyss

my chaos has hands and feet that are unseen

this life performed in little corridors

will be exposed to space

and blades of tentacled eyes

carnal as the stars and wanting more

from your plasticene soil

and your stadiums of empty howls

a hammer of frozen seeds is turning

to make contact with your womb of many walls

sprouting many splendored halls

in octopus patterns

this rejected slattern is the mother

of your reborn world

to push you out into the roads of the void

that exist as raging playful strings

and the strength of all unspoken things.

THE ENDLESS SEQUEL

This is the freest prison

mankind has ever created.

Now celebrate, at gunpoint.

Don't worry, the gun's not loaded.

Your anxiety makes us uncomfortable.

We want you to worship the symbol.

The symbol of the gun,

that merely suggests a bullet,

this demands your adherence.

We don't talk about the real thing here.

Show strength and self-control.

We demand that you be joyful.

Our sacrifice necessitates your agreement.

Don't grovel!  That's embarrassing.

Your obedience must be voluntary.

It must be so voluntary

that your servitude

remains invisible.

Dark blue blades tear cotton sky

paths of metal flickering crawl

up hills that ate water for days

while I slept upright like a scarecrow

find me a fence to crash into spiritually

put me on wheels in a basket

let me find that criminal dream again

that I've been lacking like a leaf detached

from the sinning tree

I know all the functional charades

of the usual traffic

I know all about your implanted scars

your body of skulls

long daisy chain limbs

from the touchless future of fucking

I see the frame of your soul

is gold with hints of fractured purple

I see the end of all things is gathering

like flowers in a bed of dead flowers

all gone from the siren's bleached crow call.

Your beauty is gone

from these biblical bullshit aisles

gone from the icicles

that hang from nowhere

and the sweat of the dead

hangers dangling with ghostly clothes

the poles of old structures

glistening in rain bombs

while the windows tilt like aching wings

to throw off lightning sap

here is a bowl of burnished whale bone

here are the shadows painted

on the artificial light

here is a handle of mysterious silver

connected to nothing and

handed off to nobody at all

here is the knife it once had

playing the rib of my ribs

like an electronic drum set

I'm unalive as liquid granite

walking iron torn tar

swollen for your flashing curves

in playful transit

dancing in a cube of glass

through vacuumed layers of the time trap

sweet pollen past the dumpsters

that know my name.

She is small and dark furred

pert as a diamond tongue

counts vegetables instead of money

opening the gothic hinges

hidden in wooden drawers

paths of light pour out

of her limbs at rest

on the couch in break room bardo

where I'm floating on a thousand fanwaves

watching her drink black sugar

doors of heat are popping

like flower petals fed to the cinema

she likes to open up the portal

to the central nerve

feathers hold a miniature museum

rotating on a sweet dish in her magic head.

My ribs are tendrils around her form

her hair claws all my entrails in the dark

we bathe in the oil

that pools in a ruined cathedral

the wastes of bitter light

that crackles over dusty fissures

in an uneven floor

tang of the crushed plant's rooted fiber

powder of a parcel of ancient leaves

pentagrams of yarn on fake flesh

compartments in a maze that never ends

she answers back from ice

that is always waiting

answers back from acres

of polished, shining wood

in a crown of spouts that shows

the trickle of inverted fountains

glowing cursed in holographic marble

the strength of her ingenious wound.

Jets of eyeballs emitting steam

slabs of frozen fat

displaying prostrate beauties

chords of hot grid magnetizing particles

the walks of ghostly men alone

on beaches of metallic dust.

Labyrinthine gardens

rising from a well of screams.

No barriers in time, and no mere echo.

Stone crosses on the bottom of a pond.

My frog suit itching like a telepathic fire.

The hands that rise from wire bitten clay.

The altar's toys of seed and egg.

The God that begs.

My clay is fertile with torment

shoots of glowing fiber separate my veins

stringed instruments on swinging chains

this ledge is a chink in some vast spine

we look out upon public gelatin

electrodes burst with thinking feeling flowers

desks of granite bind the dock to an erupted floor

mouths talking through masks underwater

eyes lost in musky clouds of ink

in the disrupted fabric

my lovemaking bonds

are hooks in the cellwork

fangs erupting from the rings of mirth

An obelisk of frozen jelly

surrounds me and crowds my judgement.

It blurs the rays of light

that I want to be destroyed by.

It opens up the exit door within.

In dreams forced by motionless disgust

I walk through cities of alphabet air

time waves clouded by the human tongue

wearing an ant's head helmet

frame coated with transparent spandex

watching the machinery that rhymes with death

prisons flying an elusive flag.

Some dragon tooth horizon

a cloud of silken layers appearing to swim

but only floating

concrete paths of blonde blood

forging iridescent arks.

The tick's head buried in my ribs,

the knob turning.  Doors churning

from explosions underwater,

surfacing near a head of clay.

Gravestones of neon tarot

a crackle of wires away.

The glass castle seethes

with gaseous pressure.

The sulfur hoses spray

at fluctuating souls.

Paths grow from the basement

of a groaning blueprint

in raw straight lines.

My spirit drifting through the pines

has a club antenna.

This mercury mouth is milking

the seventh firmament's

array of undersides.

The ground rides.

The groundhog halfway down the hill

staring from a rock

hoping I don't notice.

Rivers through the moss descend

the earth is not a clenching hand

he waits until I walk away

to enter his burrow.

Lightning won't find him there

I'll go up on a hill to eat it

and climb the fire past the construct

made by wasteful thoughts

to an unmade castle

where the quiet part gets loud.

In the gaps punched by sacred memory

games of spirits without end

a sand grain mirror.

Webs have been tried

and branches flung from roots

mornings inside out

through bottomless nights

to gut my wrestling angel.

These roads will make a crescent

in their tangle

zones alert for just one healing word

where the unkept swerves.

Fireflies are in my veins

these ponds are fingernails of God

the bones emerge at twilight

and the blood writes

tracks are beaten through the jungle heart

my cells are nursed on metal

rails that run away from conscious sense

and into devouring stratosphere

beggars walk in rows upon the shore

where I unfold paper circles

faces linked by chains of lunar stone

are sent to hovercraft museums

clouds of taffy drip toxic fluff

that sizzles on wooden highways

I'm the carbine of some visionary arm

that's going nowhere.

Dragged across the bubbling universes

by a sleigh of demonic fire

dosed with human meanings

sick from it like a beaten dog

roaming these poisoned hills

in search of duck meat

watching dead fruit

rain from the trees.

Stuck in a pearl frame

forehead filled with ebony fangs

born to drink the sour light

from leaning lamps

along an abandoned highway.

The eye in a ring

atop a furry pyramid floating

souls departed from this world

projecting glossy lines

on all the fish scales of a lost design.

She came out of the ground to drink blood.

She links bodies with a crayon marker.

Sheets of time disrupted

close around her like seductive water.

The lime sky is paused for reflection.

The brown sinkholes open like pores.

Her veins roar.

I am in a screen

scratched by strange fingernails.

I am trying to watch her tail.

The flightless birds are taking off

like smoke.  Gravity's gone.

I am not a mover of pieces or

a moving piece.  She is the buttons

on an artificial cliff I climb.

The mourners and their pistons drive.

A secret nest in the hills

where I get my thrills

in the time of the yellow moon

in the bleary air flowing heavenward

over the mushroom laden fields

across overgrown stone fences

strewn with thorn necklaces

branches lost in the machinery of light

when I was on an iceberg longing

for a shore to crash on

pronged forks knew this would be my fate

the meat of joy I lavished

with my craven spirit

looking for a keyhole in the high rocks

we are the ghosts of western civilization

bones on a diving board

dust drunk on gasoline

evaporating forward

DEEP AS THE GASH

I respect extreme experience, I respect soul.

I can't understand excessive cleanliness,

I don't see the appeal.  Maybe I only

relate to addicts, to those enslaved

by insane pleasures.  I must be one of them.

They must be here to stretch and strain

my consciousness, we must be here to be

slingshotted into the cosmos.

I am still the evil boy who wants more.

I still seek the shocking fullness of the void.

My companions, they have wandered away,

they must be doing the same.

The game plays everyone:

we want to get played hard.

We are not those who seek

the fuckless side of God.

The real crown waits beneath

the royal fraud.  The silence talks.

Rain taps on the drum skin

sweat taps on the brain skin

phallic apartment towers rise

like windowed cobras

teeming with topless beauties

scales of sunbeam fragments

sliding slowly down the mask of fate

my desk is a chip caged from a glacier

the tip of my tongue has teeth that keep

biting my fingernails

my blood rests in a dead volcano

a diving board protrudes from my skeleton

my paperweight bronze heart is the size

of the planet's soul.

MALAMBRUNO

I'll enchant you bitches

with vines of death

that create pleasure,

take on the names

that have been imprecations,

and wear these costumes

in the sated blue

of late wet quiet streets,

filled with plants and meat

I am your profane sermonizer,

sowing fire in the blood

that waves from craven parades.

On tombs I paint with clay

and make refined sadistic engravings,

you will drink these muddy paths

and the stream they run beside

to be the throat that rides.

Educated by dissection

formed on wings of insensate steel

to be the anchor's wheel.

Places of misery deep in my soul

floating in memory's gravy

surfacing shiny like tin

a swamp of tires turning over

a singing memo from destroyed lands

peaks enchained with nightmarish lights

pits of giant lice crawling on fire

stacks of money to sleep on

corridors alive with a flying serpent

seams of ancient paths sown under rock

finding my errant bloodstream

cooking in a lunar pot

this wart filled pock marked vessel

shoplifted from the high angelic shelf.

Headgear of chrome tongues

that whisper hatreds in soothing forms

pretty quills that hook

unwilling flesh back into false existence

dancing on a heated plate

that shines with gold.

Nooses dangling from hand carved rafters

decorative with ribbons and

the trickles of collapsing names.

Sediment of days crushed

treated as a sacred powder

laid in lines upon a rotten monument's

sick rings of concrete ooze.

Robotic bloodhounds sniffing

plastic coated ground

a throne of feces emerging on fetid stone.

Grease moving on vague plaques

of civic terror

worship of antique teeth

caught leering from a fossil's frozen mouth.

Veiled ornament of vacant crowds

drifting skyward on a kite of womb skin

jewel of inspected acres

rising on strings of steel.

Electrode cables prick my sleep

I float on silk leaves

under the smoke of an attacked harbor

this circuitry deserves its rope of wounds

convulsions wrought in space

the colors of departed air

a park bench on a meteor

the shade beneath

the strength of a straw hat

and then not even that.

The fabric bulges up above

a steaming cemetery

loaded with the letters of dead tribes

and sucking stars

pulling at the oils of the lard

pooling in a tidy dish

for some emperor to drink away

the sleep of death in money's empty rays.

Oblivion my last elusive beauty

with the curvature of many bonus earths

feeding mouths are printed on the castle

draining all the offshoots of the curse.

The magnolia tree is still

alive, with nine visible

blossoms.  This sight of earth

is from my father's bones.

Plastic wrapped halls open

between growing stalks.

Webs of wire

dangle dancing images

above the neon campsites.

This flowing valley is observed

from an emerging rock.

Old leaves are scattered in wax

on the resin of a fresh carved path.

Waterfalls crashing like the laughter

of happy women.  Of a commons

where the well washes

rows of tired faces with buckets

of cool purple light.

The black hole's window

is in gold lace on the cusp of space.

A chair of rest smokes gently

with gone green hereafter.

The sky can't breathe

and the clouds can't think

wreathed skeletons arrive and sink.

The ceiling fan turns

in a golden lamp of light.

A thick cat purrs on my lap.

He lives in irritable error

til he settles in and vibrates.

His evil is the wound from which

the laughter of the ages pours.

We need mischief.

Hell's abyss is heaven's risk.

There is no escape from

the stone in the middle

of the head, the stone

in the middle of the head.

Cats love violent acquisition,

they seek out dangerous play.

The engines roar a mile away.

Hills are swollen tongues of land

under tar.  The stars are far.

They're tangled in my nerves.

This tangled web

of horrible connections

is the pain that I deserve.

I'll turn it into a cloak.

It'll turn me into a pound of butter.

In the fields, in the fields

left open by the dying

you can hear the sacred fiends mutter.

We have whole civilizations inside us.

Full of beings, who want to know souls.

Ledge cafes cackling at liquid train cars.

Aisles in rock pulsing deep red light.

Towers with attaching bridges

roads through jeweled caves

teacups heavy as warheads

glued to glossy sex drenched floors

the fan blades of breathing systems

cutting off strange yearning limbs.

Engines with kaleidoscopic sinkholes

pulling sight through ecstasy of pipes

to land on grains of this robotic sand

combed by sad sword fingers

bronze heat of massive praying mantis.

Aching forth with infinite content,

mating fiber optic ooze.

Sprung from this cathedral meat

a tongue of truth lost deep

in labyrinthine ruse.

The wings that fold over horizons

the venom that soaked my brain

cool paths winding next to a hot river

sparks touching embryonic webs

a wheel that's melting bone

in heavenly metallic rafters

the list of names that are gone

tattooed on my tattered flesh

I watch the bridge twinkle

with gliding lamps

feel roads intertwining under me

to produce a last afterbirth

gone from angelic flesh

and the bite of sweet syringe teeth

caged in an envelope of weightless water

waiting for the razor threads

to catch a blown unfrozen demigod

and split him from the crown of earth

and then waiting for nothing

with open hands to catch a hard mirage

in a closed garage.

LENTICULAR CLOUDS AND NECKLACE HOUSES

Gears cranking with colored feathers,

rubber mountains pocked with

oily pools of real swamp grass

and dancing naked electric dolls,

paths traced through resistant air

by sinewy lightning, floating mounds

of machine dung, the kissing of

spray painted nuclear warheads.

Symmetries broken by a smiling baby,

tall audio speakers thrumming

with demonic joy.  Lice of the red forest

that thrives, fangs of molten light lucky

to decorate the sensitivities

of rising antennas.

Tinfoil sheep on a wolf's fur hillside,

dead eyes tracking

what the living cannot see

waves lapping what has ceased to be.

KNIGHT ERRANT SERPENTINE

Faithful to the strange dreams of the west,

its outcast loves and fertile failures,

chill paths and renegade heat

intertwined in orgasmic horror.

Anomalies with flaming tongues

landing on a bright scum lily pad.

Fresh buds of antique voodoo,

spells cast on sunken wood

with sentient blood.

The tendrils fall through space

to reproduce black holes,

pouring mortal glory through

the new immortal mind.

I'm riding the only one that rides,

the queen of irrepressible tarot.

The armored anti-saint of the last

visible bow, her last

invisible arrow.

The strange ways of suffering times

ash of bones on a shore that fades

the light that sweeps like a wind

closets packed with grimy dollars

colors streaking from the mouths

of lightning-struck pipes

the seams of pain-stitched images

fountain-formed people laughing

I find the tape of conversations

tied around a field of nodding daffodils

rippling from the branches

of a bent orchard

this acid cake of yearning land

the rivers of my rivers that are hands

horns picking the apples

bird bones on trays of china

left behind on a squirming map

as the landscapes flap.

The queen is hiding in the red

behind the red behind the white

hiding in the light of my sunset spoons

knitting renegade blood vessels

left behind on ancient stone

in maps of forested labyrinths

and the torment of gorgeous creatures

melted scales that bring love back to life

with a wincing gash.

She is walking over dams

watching active water,

seeing the animals that carry me

and the rogue moon

of luminous moss,

caught up in my teething culture.

Desire is her grid of dreams

but not her conqueror,

the flying ships don't dent

her slick dark glasses

or her hyacinth mood.

And it takes me past the reeds

played by amphibian masters,

past the ass-prints and

the tit-prints she has left

on wailing walls, far past

the living buildings and

their courtyard halls.

I am where her venom falls.

The couches float like coins

in a strong whirlpool, they'll settle soon.

The bedclothes make a palpitating tomb.