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.