What gives me life devours me again,

the ground swells with my

breathing ribs that stretch for miles.

the fathers of my language

walk with me on the planetary flesh

that grows,

fists in the sky, documented

by smoothly tracing lasers,

the victory of a demonic jackass

orgasming on thrones of frozen beef.

When the tide of mud

covered speaking wounds

my elastic heart

attached itself to rooted stone

grew gills painted in slime

and sprouted pained and lucid eyes

to stare into transforming canyons.

From the crest of heaven

plummeting to hell once more

burning through the atmosphere

of distilled time, time

and its raging cycles

that never resolve.

Passionate nights,

passionate days on this earth.

I lived my life among the cursed

because I am one of them, because

there are no others.

I picked up rocks and saw

my residence in them.

I watched the noisy places

burn down to ash

on every mangled shore.

A blade that floats in foam

inscribed with cells

in multiplying fractions

climbing volcanic rope

when the river's gone

and a sky of lumpen angels beckons.

Gates guarded by elastic veils

furrows parted by the king of mystic rails

syrup dripping down through summer.

I got chopped up by cameras

in the fragrant woods

frozen in the freezing light

that crawls rough surfaces like raging oil

hung from floating car doors

putting signatures to floating magic papers

seated in the pleasure chair

in time warp diners

that replicate in unseen webs

the gravity of certain types of flowers

has pulled me through these stinging swamps

and teeth filled jawbone museums

lonely ledges in the midst

of broken dancers in the pits

of western dressing rooms

caves attached to all the dragon's wombs

unfolding through the dripping undersides

of cubicles coded senseless

and fixed feathers of metallic birds of prey

gripping satellite antennas

cold tongues asleep on marble

all hooded by refracted pine.

I went out to climb the mounds of sugar

pulling letters from

the boxes of strangers

reading them all

beams from immovable sky orbs

scanning fractured water

embers of swollen islands

bridges flirting with ragged visibility

and the ones I'd known were gone

to the impenetrable hills

bound in fortress pleasures or

cast out to gutter prizes

red threads glittering on sun shocked bones

tresses growing in a music box tomb

whose vaults have hungered

hungered for the fallen ears of God

and the gears of his reactive rod

rented out to rotating burlesque.

Find me in the fire walker's trance

find me in the slot belonging

to a clapping coin machine

smoking by the glass walls

close to an exploding rose.

Mine is the shadowed space

between these towers of empty cans

mine are the scoundrel's wings

beating homeward nowhere

for a ring of solemn flower green relief

where electric fame's inducted into sleep.

Skies are raging with the forms

collected in an omnibus

these vertebrae balloons

ferns emerging in an empty room.

Rain delaying death comes pouring out of the dusk

memorized lusts all burned away by living flesh

the appetite of blooming canyons

calling to my mossy painted bones.

Ropes of seething memory

that tighten over ebbing cities

lax lines of light

dripping dark ecstatic praise.

Ruins of distorted tales

licked into twitching shape

by the passing of angelic rage.

I crouched in blasted rooms

stitching ink into floating bubbles

deep within the windows

holding clouds from some high abyss,

painted rust of unkept daydreams

crackling in long curved halls.

In the oven was a luminous egg

sending fractals into meditative space,

vibrant with the needle seed

threading space like gravy,

porous as the seething sun.

I took a phantom train

and attached our windows

walked the treadmill concrete

watching lights digress

water glints like mercury

among the night grasses

reflecting signs of ages fallen

easels of the wavering and damned

drone bees who lock in on dreams

and color dying high beams

festivals of bone vibrating

symphonies of sizzled milk on coal

Your visions of humanity

are all bereft of blood

and null and void of taste

to poison horns of light

with masks of gray

and pull the plunging ink tongue

from the frothing brink

where sinking ships

are filled with laughter

and pearls return the grain

that gave them form.

How I long for a revival of the heart,

to see the dawn drip with ancient promise.

A plank paved by galactic violence

leading endlessly to altered space.

Sanctuary of salacious mercy,

take me into your neon crunch.

Teach me to shed my seed

on this wavering canvas,

move me into a resounding spark.

How deep in the true

bubbling heart of dark

rich water you go,

bouncing back from every abyss

to dance in a gilded frame,

bronze fingers clinging

to pearl plugs

you emit thin strands of purple anima,

egglike stones attend

your firmly calloused feet,

you stand on my soul

as the evaporating savior,

a mirage love made

from stone to stand alone.

Cutlets of angelic bodies

ladders from the clouds

that look like frozen cream

and act like fractured letters.

Docks where collapsible castles

are unloaded in the secret night.

Towns laid out beneath a ledge of rock

shells crawling underwater.

The quill of light

found trembling in the meat

of these entities fallen

cousin of the knives

scattered at the kingdom's gate

assigned to furnace earth

injecting brainlike fluid

for the spiritual machinery of caves.

I can feel the mystery of the fungus

growing in every vein.

Peach fuzz phosphorescence

glowing on epidermal armor

fresh from the storm of the ages

that is eating the sky.

Death is coming in a thousand disguises,

raining on walls of steel with relentless music,

hiding in the balls of sand with balloon skin,

splattering the rails that hold

a throne of fecal ice.

Light is leaking from my toes

and from my shaded hands,

I must see the scattered rays

that link it to a fading shore.

February's looking for the fool.

Here I am, here I am.

The trees dissemble and the low sky

drools in plastic spirals.

Next year is already cut

into drifting pieces.

The paths are made by metal burning

through uncertain earth.

These stumps are painted breathless

by the spinning of

imprisoned machinery.

I sit and wait for my pores to be filled

but infinity can't heal the breach

between flesh and stillness.

The rhythm of life is loss.

The bloom pounds down the door

and steals the scene, but the round

sanctum of the void holds.

The evaporation of existence leaves

a hammered glow.

Stunned by the depth of silence,

I play my drowning note

to play, to play, to play,

and not to stay.

From the shroud of darkest kisses

I slipped away to a road of solitude.

Separation brightened

as the clutch of flesh

receded behind many miles.

The sound of unbothered air

became an eerie music.

It brushed my skin free

of brittle plastic echoes

that gather in commercial outposts.

Released, no embrace

could bring me back

to the neat rows of cemeteries

or the gleaming engines

carrying their fleets of shiny legs

and internal eyes.

The masks of cultural phantoms

have fallen from my form.

I am naked in the crushing weight

of unnamed forces.

Paths poured in iron

flake away like burnt grass.

How can I move these wooden limbs

now that the strings have snapped?

Who can show me the shape of things

behind the fallen facade?

Is there anyone among the senseless

who can dream themselves awake?

You move toward emptiness

in the circuits of these dying words.

Based in blue light

a cyclone's gears of metallic tendrils

lock thorns around

some interactive gel.

A seat beside the vomit pool

of self dissecting dancers

who trampled over fields of tongues

a peaceful spot to watch

turmoil and its worm army.

A tear of oil

verging on the captured sea.

Snare of daylight

tightening around the wrist

of a reluctant hand,

wounded milk

that crawls through systems

to trickle down disturbed forms,

ray that seeks disgruntled heat

and pulls the thread of threads.

Mouth of invisible zones,

peripheral halls that wind

a palace basement

to a library of painted bones.

Basket of malignant lava

make it shine for me.

I saw lilacs turn to ashes

in the driveways

of such heavenly geometry

hastened by the grease of dying bones.

Doors with bright transparent outlines

giving way to blackness

deep and rich.

Rooms with unseen walls

filling up with circular beds.

Machinery of afterlife

fronds soaked in viscera

atremble with inverted grace.

On a cold barrier

watching battered materials

cluster together and flower

with long paper blades

hung from an expanse

of planet dividers

transparent walls with

curling metal hooks

dancing in the secret confines

of a smooth reptilian costume

handing out the party favors

to a funeral parade.

Hummingbirds attack

the doghouse interior,

sipping from the pores

of a fallen adventurer,

dumping syllables of joy

on patchwork streets,

songs of love over the long

courtyards.  Angelic blades

delaying over earth, ricocheting

down the oiled guardrails,

watching a fat man gesture

shoeshine pivot on an altar of steel

lands where nobody heals,

rolls grinning in rivulets under

the hilltops, markets mopstick tall

in the alchemical dawn.

Caves full of pages

lit shelves shining

from the guts of hills

canvas pressed

by sleeping bodies in the soil

stretched between drainage pipes

and pumping pipes

running the stuff of life

the sleepwalker climbs a cliff

wide awake pigeons watch scraps

unraveled on cement capped ground

strings of the kites

that no one flies

dangling from tangled skies.

I close the door on my old life.

I put away old habits, old ideas.

It crawls up out of the floorboards

and the forest floor, it accompanies

a galactic cruiser.

It opens a store in my head.

This world is already gone.

Its ghosts play in the shadow outlines.

The streams are frozen.

The sun is a buttered disc

of artificial meat.

Orbits are escaping flies,

caught in patterns embedded

in your cyclical eyes.

This drama is the echo

of everything dead.

Pulsations are but dripping rot

all oozing through

these narrow corridors.

The view is bent: frauds

perpetuate the fraud,

and nothing real can survive here.

No weeping sacrifice,

no stubborn stoic toil,

no love on fire,

just branded disillusionment

and computer blues.

It's good to lose.

Venom lights the wick inside the bulb,

manipulates the flame

inside the dancing porcelain baby,

drives the eyes past

infinite imponderables

that retreat at top speed,

drives the eyes out through the eyes

and the soul out of the skull

to reside silently in dancing.

Venom touches gloomy corners

with chrome cones and shrinking

wheels, each turning on a fleck of dust,

each hidden gear equipped

with its own wet fang.

The splatter has a map within.

Fine parts are blotted out.

Branches grow like rivers

into the stark background.

Names are lost and form is gained

by grind.  Venom coats the stitches' lines.

I am climbing mountain rivers

to the sun, following

a cry of abandon,

following a jagged ray of light.

The rot I tread

is churning in the beds

mulched underwater,

crawling past my knees

to paint an armor

of mud upon this form

I move with pain.

Let the drum skins beat

between hollow trunks,

let beetle wings and lizard tongues

rain down.  May the current

wash me clean before I reach

the peak, the stripped sky

give me an interactive crown.

Over the planetary lobe

let the pierced horizon frown.

Trails of lace and velvet slides

a cemetery carved into a fingernail

rivers wrapped around the feet

of trapped stone angels

carrying foam boats

of plastic jewels

I am mirrored in magnolia leaves

my veins are poison vines

that climb the highest trunks

to find a resurrected sky

a pentagram is inked around

your deepest orifice

the gilt framed edges

wreathed by sticky spores

and bathed in lakes of sunlit pollen

the roads to ruined towers

are swollen tight against graffitied rails

and drummed by toxic hail.

You be the hot grenade

I'll be the stomach of steel

that catches it

the mouth that exhales smoke

translating fire into speech of many tongues

branches all caressing

from the molten heart

the fevers that make spirits flesh,

up past the barriers of bladed space

far over chariots of darkened matter

and orgasmic information

into blank angelic zones

that smell of broken chocolate,

into the most fertile wound.

All the grime of blown illusions

riding on a cloud of maggots,

inhabiting the thoughts

of a disfigured species,

tearing the sail to shreds

that dripped with captured daylight,

stuck to the hull of reality

with no relief from time.

Teeth on a chain of pink plaster

clicking for an earless breeze.

Corroded walls on limestone

reflections that embroider on the blade

dissection of the ritual assurance

that carried sleepy bones into the grave.

In the curve of winds secured by ghostly circles

the heights of ridged hills

and the smell of cracked rock,

bright eyes are the heat's holder.

The cave cups fire dances

smoke rides a fissure out into the sky.

New blood is paint before it dries.