<><><><><>

Slabs of regret kept slab by slab on the cold
that never breaks, the hard vomit of water.
Drones on drones of death for us
served and served by the serving and serving
who serve us death on death droning
they'll study my frantic habits fuck you S government
what will be good for us for our family
idiots of state ministers of all everythingness,
you are the servants of death, you are the lingo
of death, you are the lyric of death complete,
death is all you do, mingling and mingling
          Deep in a fissure of glacier contests
          sorrow's little female hell
          comes twitching and twitching
          servants of love are death
          the tongues ministers of death are transplendent
          the false fire that makes them go out is quite original.

<><><><><>

I want to be shadows, milk, interrupted
                         and uninterrupted territory.
 You want to be a pile of silks
    where I occasionally go stabbing,
             helpless.  But my hardened nature
              will not be anchored;
    in the chemical overpower of huge and passing night
     your cloaked reptile felt speeches
                        are ribs breaking off     into the shattered day.
                   I rise on the anchor's rope
                when the ship drifts into its stature.

<><><><><>

Fling wall-pieces
        mortar to parchment of time
    to the floor of echoes
       to the resounding board
  where we fall our lips are a word void
  they speak it into the fullness
   like a goblet against a wall
  these are the people falling and
   tumbling across the words
  suffering puncture-wounds
      from these words and dying

<><><><><>

Wet with what the library rejected life,
stern in the rapports of a new friendship anti-system,
romanced by a goose from a goddess' middle finger
coarsened in flower undulating pages in the public park
of self in evaporation on curve of drinking fountain metal
face gone to fables in stretching blood on blood blood
eyes and lips and teeth smashed by love of force
dry with what life rejects, they curl up on the edges like birch bark
mate-fucks deepen the gravity pond
sweeten sinlessness with real error
plate-glass splinters on acidic snow
plunged through the dying wall of the party
wet with what the library rejected life

<><><><><>

I want you to tattoo my belly with kisses,
I'll lean back, study your scalp,
touch the soft indicative curve of an ear
as you assimilate the aching tip near your throat
and bathe your tongue's strength
in the warmth of my soldiers.

<><><><><>

Shelved with my other selves,
I look out, and wonder at my predicament:
my pages are voiceless, and nothing has reached
the room of no echoes.
I am dying in dry glue
no wetness to my struggle
found on rectangular deserts,
never branching for the cure of time and space.
What animates me is death:
the disintegration of my binding.

<><><><><>

Coils of unraveled planets
sperming and cooling
a deliberate engagement to ignite
that which brings death to all
humankind the total destroyer
creator of god
the runway of stars like a path of shattered glass
open river bald sky
sand and grass dry
at the crumbling edge, fruit of error
perfected.

<><><><><>

Leaden knockoff humans
tilting their eyes down
at anyone who has fallen
in a fit of weeping
brook side or in a hallway of grey linoleum
where urine drips out of the slammed lockers
leaden their dancing their dreaming
their horror of mercy and hard-lived lives
dying to look nowhere, to be nowhere
anti-souls who took the anti-dote
sitting down, silenced and scraping
the bottom of their insides for some purchase to make
that will vinegar the depths to fruition of mop head face garden
failed rep antiquity unit
galumphing at fossils and driveway maggots
slitting toad wallets to reveal silver all over
the ice planet of dead fuck.

<><><><><>

I used to take people in, find them chairs, try to get
them to stay awhile.  The ice sets on the outside.

I have my burden of miscommunication to carry.

As if my whole existence has been rejected,

I walk around reeling, with powers useless,

unconscious.

           At the bottom, closed-circuit void,

           un blur the entrance, a killer of psalms,

           dug in, wisdom less, cursed with joy,

           throttling the mutual organism for pleasure.

<><><><><>

The cold threatens my hands
     which I cannot retract.
 The mirror threatens the cold
     with my own death,
       as if that would dampen it.


The outdoors threatens the indoors
      and its instructions are intact,
       as if preserved in electricity.
     The lenses of time turn backward
         on its grid work of dancing.


   High afternoon waits to explode
          in the dragon's belly of a pocket
           restaurant, flashing and urging
          in six pairs of eyes for every
             one.  And partakes of the lunchbreak,
                 smoking and fleeing.


Scarves fall from my hands on the way
      to the laundromat, and pantyhose,
       and chandeliers of corsets and
     thongs, wait for me there
   in the ceiling detachment
     above the throne of coins.


Scarcity can wreck, scarcity
     can make an incredible animal.
 The scarcity of time can shrink
       the scarcity of all
          these other things.

<><><><><>

In the newly awakened areas more feline artists will emerge
    self-contained high-impact polystyrene animal-moles
at once the four hooves poised menacingly above;
    to excite the interstellar galaxy's outer edge trace its spiral arms
bright little highly textured dabs of his own for a long comforting licking
    a vast spherical shell of stars a robotic mission within the 186, 000 miles a second


      stretch from Earth a nonmetal charcoal briquette
   tornado torch to mimic the harmonic point
     with warmth, scent and sit in the mid-field or meridian
   simply stop struck by the most territorial observation
     the transmitters the cats were fitted with calendar, chrome-plated black dial
   for ladies unbreakable mainspring oval shape cavatina with play equipment


In the ring is the one central bulge and core surrounding the galaxy
a hollow place in his bed as elements burn

<><><><><>

I am burning my life
 down into a low murmur
                 of truth;
 waiting there, until vocables
              mutate into truth, nerves
       meet in truth, and all else
                is gobbled into truth,
                       wetly.

<><><><><>

Pretty as the head of a nail
   made for linen, scrolls and perfumes
      through an arch of polished town dreamed miniature
      where her eye-diamonds alert and sprinkling numerous messages
                                                                 ash on the concrete floor
    my jaw on the wood of not staring
         her belly of twenty-five country summers
              the oops texture of air arrested
          by the cool bustle of her curve and matrix
             thought bubble of jukeboxed intelligence
           the light in the belly with a hoof
             a sunset near her fingernail adjusting

<><><><><>

Even my hair was lit
      with a new fire
        when I bathed in the light
                     of your presence.
 That which breatheth life and wrecketh,
  shoots mesmerized out of the undying ground.
    Juiced and sprocket of caves,
     forked mouth signifying
                                everything,
          I give you both my enough and my not-enough,
          bring me ointment under cover,
                                       clover come tow me down.

<><><><><>

These machines are making me jumpy.
      I go around showing myself to people
           to make sure I'm still here.
     I don't want to be in a place
      where nothing in the air
        speaks to me.
 Behind a coiled mass of bronze
     a deep red fire goes on and on.
 In its throne of warped and muted echoes
                                          I am seated
                                                     and calm.

<><><><><>

Smashed diamond with towns in its slanting sides
 smashed diamond hides all the time
  glacier deep in its kisses departing
   shards of sidewalk to the moon
    drubbed with drunken foot

<><><><><>

A mysterious siren, my brother as I
must be rounded or flung high
into depths that clutch upward or downward
circuit the same light dull dawning
or trapped light in the belly of a mule
lips on cruise control body talking
or trapped light in the light of a cubicle
vacuumed land of the vacuumed man
a grey-rugged hell strewn with skin
peeling from being, dying cells in hexagram
dying, flirting with terror on a surf's
     promise

<><><><><>

The scorched cemetery of desire:
 fearless wind, no dagger, minimal
 conflict of bones, the cliff-faces in evening gowns,
    a hardened mystic, chest-wound in the golf-cart,
   fluttering of the thing houses of fools
    spattered by their own idiocy, hating the hollow
                                                                          dawn,
                                                     and jazz, and loving
                                             only their streamlined reptile.

<><><><><>

A morsel of my humanity
    preserved on the cliff's edge: the scarred
      neighborhoods applaud with streetlights
                                                 and wire.

<><><><><>

The face carved backwards: the spirit carved backwards.
The whole hideous self a wasteland of swollen milk.
Frisson in eyelids, in eyelashes, in long and curving and strong
and slender branches, that hold the climber with hands that walk upside,
down, lines knotted with other lines: mercury vapor, no face,
wildly edible poison, everywhere, the landscape inhabiting masks.
Telephone of ozone cracking like a June bug.