The carnival of darkness

abides in beds of rich violet,

rears up with many heads

and unseen limbs,

doll's eyes vomiting soil

with a milk of metallic hue,

and I sit at my desk roofless

in a tar-caked wasteland,

waiting to see those among the dead

who would fall with me

back into this world

and rip its vain belltowers down.

Softly I refuse the dead,

put up on shelves

new parcels for the living

who have empty hands.

On a fine wire over the blooming hills

dropping blades and origami

the burnt skin on hot medallions

claws of shadows all emerging

from a shattered grain of sand.

I'm a raindrop on a leash

these paths are the trails

of ecstatic boulders

I wash artificial skies

with a foaming nozzle

I watch the real blood run down

the potato chip walls.

My self portrait is a room of repellent jewels

the prerecorded rainstorm's

crashing hallways behind other rooms

where the real tight spiritual machinery

churns the light into glowing taffy.

After all my lives have fallen apart, after all

my twisted attempts to be human have failed,

I come to this cave that bisects time

watching shit-streaked wings flow out of me

to shudder in their improvised bones,

making sure the center is always

in the wrong place, colors

empty of form for glory

scaffolds mounting over makeshift suns.

The streets were hollow

and strewn with hail.

I had my soul thrown

through your doorstep

by pallbearer hyenas

snickering in shiny suits.

You were puzzled by

the veiny wallpaper

and the rivers that coursed

between rooms.

The ogre who carried your silks

wore my face upside down.

The cups of froth

on the windowsill

began to foam and flowed

across the deep fake grass rug.

I clawed synthetic minnows

from its blades

and brought them to your mouth

for you to taste the electronic lake.

You spat electrodes singing

in my face and made a paste of me

to bless the dark material beds

that sink with galactic fissures

stretching vagrant space.

The blossoms come like little fists

this year.  The fabric torn

still has more forms to push.

Threads of mangled inertia

still pierce the wall of nothingness.

I see my face on the dying side

that the dawn hides.

I view the bloom

from somewhere far away.

If you can see me deep

inside this multiplied ravine, send me

the warmth of an echo, send me

the variance of the marching heart

when it trickles to the outskirts.

In the veins of the earth,

waiting with a helmet,

cape and spear.  Trades of the surface

all banished from possibility now.

The shine of furniture,

vibration of hidden knives,

the swinging chains of fortune

all carrying a meaty hook.

From the shade

of disheveled metaphysics,

the gathered stalks

grown from a seed of blood,

my mustache exits reality

the rhyme-raked mirror remains.

Fists full of pink flowers

thorns that intertwine

behind pouting lips

the swollen walls of the house

left behind above a smoking ruin

on a high and sloping cliffside

detached from the town of wires and pipes

soul's form is the sheath of the blade

that cuts away all.

Glass shards on a tar stained concrete hillside

seams leaking poisons to remake the world

painted lines pointing

to some splattered fortress walls

no message from the obsolete numbers

stacked high in thick fluorescent tides.

I am a remnant of banished America

you can tell by the clever shape

of my mutating scars

walkways lead to the insensate grinder

I watch from the weird strength

of twisted trees

I creep under humming concrete bridges

with my sacks of rejected merchandise

making robotic battery powered spiders

that recite the Constitution of Hell

blue jays and bright red cardinals

are landing on the smoking line

where I am jolted

drinking your intoxicated messages

now burst and fading to some greater sky

I see roses that are flames

on the lips of the dead of the earth

and the speech of days past

scattered among pages left behind

city squares left empty

with painted pavements

high windows home to the ghost

looking out alone from wounded portals

tongues of memory are blades in the air

scents of kisses withdrawn

are the thorn in every cushion

cute mechanics of excreting corners

seams of living beams

lashed to the levels of descending hives

Eyes turned into the guts

nightclub to nightclub

carrying the colors

that we'll wear into the reptile dark

coiling around fecund foundations

piercing flesh that elevates

a cage of blinding light

from funnels in the deep unknown above

that filter thick angelic blood

to shapes on shelves of dust

blinking with injected life

fading fast in fragments

each bright shard in its reflecting box

I ripped a box out of my head

dumped out the golden thread

that squirmed in cotton insides

while the ornaments were sprayed with soul

cabins of glass in vapor

looking over graves that squirm

handles that lift up the earth

submerged in ways of fire

filth a roving eyeless claw

I've been turning to the times

when we were mysterious,

letting all the scenes of love cluster

above ten trapdoor clouds.

Moving with my ghosts

over slick silent cafeterias,

table to table picking up empty glasses,

waiting for the light that spells my name

and burns a day's layer of skin.

Slabs of merciful weight

landing on the enemy.

Tangled fires and flowering corpses,

the shit of exploded babies

splattered on the shards

of ruined architecture.

Tablets of hidden machinery

invading tormented minds.

Screens of forced telepathy

beaming from transparent walls.

The lovers fled, they died

on the last green hill.

Skeletal limbs of automatic minds

that take themselves apart

and leave no heart

are all that's left behind.

Diamonds of glorious hatred

beaming from the phalanx of dead souls

that inhabit the machine palace

each one filling up a second body

with gelatinous pus,

discarding all the flavor of existence

for an empire of bones.

Frozen entropy begins to thaw.

Awakening is painful.

Then the orgasm of battery acid.

Teeth leaking on an oily cement floor.

No more dreams except for death.

Seed flung on charcoaled climes

brain sucking off the spirit's hair

those flowing filaments of nonentity

all blooming into darkened space.

Hair of seaweed wrapping incandescent flesh

ripples of metallic sky hardening against geysers

of breath unleashed by dying poets

calendars all flung away

cells bathing in blue fire

eyes of all desire

glowing over deserts and abandoned ranches

rows of frozen cornstalks

clacking as the wastes flower with useless beauty

sprawling towards the nowhere which is ours.

Muscles twitch like the alarm of fish

towers tremble on plains of tar

the slime of life climbs labyrinth foundations

fangs of light erect from temple gates

and gobble sleeping walkers

grates scrawled with graffiti

crashing down on rubber bones.

The tongue feeler

erupted from some intestinal miracle

protrudes from gray lactating rubble

scrambling thick air

with its fingering fright

fills crumpled lungs with bamboo butter

looking for the suns that won't ascend.

Slaves of programmed fortune

tickling the doorsteps of the damned

and singing death into the corridors

of separating worlds,

lit by poison light and licking

wounds that never heal

with charms attached

to tongues that are defunct

yet take their painted place in orbs

that hang from chaos in chains

ensnared in burning dark that never ends.

I am going to shine my black,

black fucking light.

I will resurrect marvels

that the Western world has never seen.

I will drink the milk

of the evilest goddess

from her magic cunt,

and engage the angels

with tales of spiritual vandalism

successfully repelled, while they slept.

The opening of a new idiom

has squeezed my orange dry.

I paint the wall with oily clothes.

This always goes well.

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.