She was a storm of the inkwell

and a spirit of flame

gliding over dying corridors

with a semblance of eternal feet

their steps outlined in acidic gold

chains leading to a balcony

of birds in flowing figure eight

some unbronzed omega

encircling these fists

gripping frozen raindrops.

Her oval shapes and

shade dipped dragonfly wings

car doors on a missile fallen

legs descending

to lead spanked pavements

bleeding beads

of broken unplugged light

the wood grain of an unmasked sky.

The weather of the veins

is a different weather.

Sleds clatter against fragrant ice

and scrape down sealed hills.

Rails of conceived light

fired by the lonely car roaring

from a dream of freedom

that was mapped onto a prison conduit.

Drums of water talking

across moss canyons and reshaped straw

harps plucked by an evaporating law

on the stage where lonely whores can caw

a lamb with lion's claws

on the operating table

quite raw for experiment

shackled to the love of manic animals

bejeweled without the succor of luna

floating framed parallelogram bones

A BEING

All are gone, yet all are congealed

into the one.  Not just their traces;

their absences are a large part

of what makes him up.

His house of many empty rooms

is what he is.  Somewhere between

solitude and all the departures,

a loneliness that never quite

happened.  A hummingbird floats

out of an opened hand.

The parkbench rooted in

formerly molten metal

is where he used to stand

before he became the one,

before all the others disintegrated.

Worlds came apart in their last imaginings,

as their armor of flesh fled

his forgetting that remembers them

decorating abandoned spaces.

Slapped into gear by mad epiphanies,

watching ditches revealed

as rivulets to the ocean,

lured into ringed heat

by the depths below.

Painted edges crackling with erosion

hooked highways towed

by incomprehensible matter,

trees fawning for the wet spasm

energy reacting without verbiage

ferns clustering on spider feet.

Worlds in pockets

of the wounded sanctum

cells vested in the strength

of mysterious death.

AFTER SIGNING OURSELVES INTO BIRTH

In the storm of bones

too tiny to be seen

by naked eyes, something

with human curves adorns itself

with machine blossoms

and the typeset of altered letters

that make mute cells

simulate speech.

Water isn't reaching as it flows.

The plastic cage that flashes

around the sun is mostly

in your mind.  Nor was it made

like a corkscrew or

the doll that represents

a ballerina.  The scenery is brass

in your museum of dying thoughts.

I'll polish it for you

until it erodes all the way through.

I'll let the light come hard

from bitter corners.

Your prison immunizes me

against its own seductions.

My existence is not its eruption

or its end.  As the body has many contacts

and the soul has few friends: we share

only our contract with death.

One by one my lives all

came to an end, each phase

was torn from the canvas.

I was left like a sterile tank

creaking faintly in an empty room.

I looked for the mountains of snow,

for the lots made magic by bicycle tires,

for galleries written in steam

and dried by sunlight.

The moments of mercy and grace

were all used up, I was hung

like a smoking fuse

from flickering rafters.

Now this world is frozen shit,

but it still blooms.

It is stricken with isolation,

yet it flows throughout.

Yearning is the only doubt.

You can seal the quartz doors

within walls of smoke

string a beauty together

with animate rags

and goat blood soup

still she goes floating

over the disco habitats

like a winged eel

in frills of eternity's preview

a butterfly pinned to a plate

doesn't watch from magnetic earth

the teeth of ethereal gears deprived

of hide made to be eaten

bones achieving in a naked dream

Valleys extended around a willing planet

glinting with volcanic light

paths of glass blood fogged

from the turgid interior

kite strings of a laughing series

trailing over plateau green

When highways trail off

and blood handprints in the moss

become separate gardens

hinges creak in many fortress walls

I am walking with a drifting forest

strutting backwards on its locked lakes

letting the sky's choruses pour

wrapping bones in frayed reels

a grid of gilded frames descends

on blank paved lots

and painted concrete elves

the scraping of chain tied steel boxes

all the egg weight of swivelling hips

gone to dispersing space

the veins of thicker doors

seed flung talking like skulls of water

fumes aching to make skin grade

deer's bed beneath a cone bright pine

Disarmed at the halo

fallen by the wagon in the sand

drinking rivulets of daylight

stripped down to merciless angles

phantoms rocking on the wall between eras

mocking ecstatic agony

bricks march on ant legs

to be one with the putty

stages set with yellow blades

forming agitated furniture

histories that harmed the name of God

a veil sliding down resurgent towers

thorns branching from the kink in a written circuit

falling star in a plastic spoon.

Shower me with eyelashes,

stand next to me in the rain.

Observe your hold on me

is gaining tides.  Let the blades of time

glance off one another harmlessly.

Let fantasy rise to inhabit

this cursed flesh and sullen air,

climb to me on your hair,

the long braid I am holding

in a balcony of frieze collage.

See the mirrors in the domed courtyard

beaded with tiny frogs,

their sucking fingers and frowning mouths.

Let me put a long tongue on your shine

and your frills like razors

melted into silken symmetries

on your chest like vines

a garden goddess who has stood for ages

springing into my hands

like sinewy eggs in velvet

thank your stormy graces

your cracks that taste faintly of lime

your delicious slime.

In the maze of twisted twilight

bones are falling from a cloud

on the long abandoned sidewalks

spirits walking in their shrouds

carry battered blood blurred letters

from a lost and scattered book

brains with spider legs

cracking melted sand

hot buttons of panels and layers

a pillow case of quills

tattooing the squirming sleeper

a doorway on a naked head

the voices of the overwhelming dead

the reins of the rain are plugged in

to birth canal stigmata

fiber optics of these shrinking hands

stitched expanses of this foreign land.

Glass bedroom boxes

floating on pink flames

becoming the middle of nowhere

long lines of rabbit foot luck

all made from radiant plastic fibers

glowing from the dark

that made them strong

I remember canyon bottom paths

rich in mythical animalia

I was tractor beamed to siphon

the mystical seeds of my soul

libraries piled on my back

behind the curtains

of the hypnotized hereafter

tunnel to my willing guts

alive behind this cemetery wall

I throw confetti at the bastard

cheer the wild vitals in him

that have gone astray;

I fool the fishes into

jumping over his laughter,

while he's alive: he was a son

of the last magma

boiling deep before the cool age

splitting rocks without a hammer

breathing fire and fiery ropes

caught light besieged by dancing towers

the lure of these slow motion hours.

He's ragged after sampling their flavors

still an alien in his skin

raw spirit imprisoned

coin counters tracing the walls

diamond rods uphold the velvet order

signposts of quiet glory bask

in the neon wrought before the fall.

Razor moon

on a hundred nights of love

ruin running over with young blood

dugouts shining with suds of chemical death

been bronzed in the alleyway toaster

years in coma have been secretly meaningful

drawers open in the twilight

wasted treasures pop out in bunches

the fountain swallows its vibrations

and the clay eels cool on a dusty step

androids in artificial shadows

the grand steel has a grim reputation

and mounds of sand stand in time

ravaged only in imagination

You have chosen the machine

for a brother, and maybe

it can keep you company now.

The void will sway with you

as you drown within it.

Congratulations on your humble irony,

on your mute grasp

of imprisoning civilization.

Fuck the material that made you.

It didn't work out.

The mercy of castration

will reach you first.

My gelding will not awaken

what little is left of you.

Thanks for reaching oblivion quickly

so we don't have to watch you squirm.

It would have been uncomfortable

to find that you had a soul.

That skin suit really drove you wild.

You always scratched at it

trying to take it off.

Now you have nothing left to pierce.

You have found out

that your consciousness died earlier,

and it remains dead deep on the outside,

as it was already dead close inside you.

You lived with the corpse of your spirit

as an unwilling partner,

and now in unseen space

you experience only the oblivion

of angelic inertia; the innocence

of your total evil is plain as a wasted day.

You float: you float with the turds,

because you are a despicable turd.

You float despicably because

that's all you can do.

You seed was such a curse

from the beginning, and

your egg was even worse.

Go ahead and smother your birth.

Monumental ooze

from the sagging walls of time

new anti-temples are erected

tongues of ice penetrate

the xylophone spine

fireflies swim under my skin

and rearrange vegetable matter

stages are lit by captured moons

entangled in orgasmic torment

by clenched cliffs

and simmering guardrails

highways moved aside like dry leaves

the shimmer of a watching screen

stories dripping down a clean

cut of galactic meat

angels landing with their bloody cleats.

You'll be a blessed earth

pierced by all these

attacking seeds.  I have

my scarecrow outpost,

I have my shelves all lamp lit

for the coming storm of pulchritude.

Aisles rained upon by rotten fruit

sashes cast aside in sudden labor

moons are straining at the dome

of stunned habitation.

Mirrors turn around

in a churning wall.

Mattresses go flipping

through the paradox.

The ground howls for fuel

that the mule can't give.

The eyes in all the curvature live,

swamps drink liquid fire

and reverberate vampire hearts,

old walls of stone are a home

for lichen.  The plateau

of a singing knife,

a bottom drawer for ashes.

Beauty's thud on bone,

the bounds of a disorienting home.

The garden is enthroned.

Naked in a luminous cage

bones crowded by theatrical altars

lips in the web competing with bloody tongues

bronze shoulders projecting astral roads

traffic of ages that eclipses the body

souls pouring over blistered earth

it's rumored electricity yearns

and has found her circuits fit for bursting

tassels of a womb that sings

puppeteering all these dripping things.

In the birth of a new silence

I'll find my bitch and ride

over the decorative cemeteries

and the gilded book of the damned

laughing through the eyes of a peacock feather

painting a whole cliff while smoking

I watch the windows that are empty

and fill them with the dancers

whose lux frames only I have known

I fix the hanging wings with wax

and let them leave the barn

like a stream of cloaked breeze

escaping the zone of robotics

swimming the seam of an inverted valley

lost in kisses I received before the resurrection

spiral staircases dripping with thick genetic material

her devil horns of a satin mask

with lightweight bulletproof backing