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.
No comments:
Post a Comment