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.