A fragment, falling.

Once I thought

I'd lift the world.

The bottom is beautiful.

The forms of life become

insular and decorate the deep

with their elaborate adaptations.

There is life down here, of a kind.

Glowing with occult blood,

sewn up in seamless lips.

Lava cooled like the blackest honey.

Am I glad to have fallen?

I have fallen.  The gravity

is good for building.

The bough up there in sun

where I hung is gone.

The surface is earlier.

Shells are flower petals

and the pressure is a permanent mistress.

I undress in fermented coils.

Cracking cells instruct me in architecture.

The mud is smoothed by weight.

I turn the hundred prepared pages.

A bubble is the dream of a brick.

A remnant is a cooling wish.

The sea has treasures it can't hide.

I ramble for a burger.

Walking to the empty station

just to wait in the stillness there.

Drinking from the icicles

that have a sour taste.

It seems the heavy engines

have moved away.

The scurrying of squirrels

in dry timber.

Curled leaves cracking

with their every step.

Ghost of my responses,

sit with me here awhile.

Let us stop preparing

and take the breathless ease

of lit horizons through

space or cells, in separate

dwelling bells.

Born brother

to the wind that doesn't know your name,

riding serpentine sidewalks

smelling all the urine of the gods,

the shade of a shouted prayer,

taking the dust mask

through a labyrinth of sacred stone,

born brother

to the flicker of a long and curving pathway,

whipping around the planetoid brain

that is a restless hive

each rafter with its row of nests

the barn where I lurked to thaw

become eternal.

A solitary wheel of ghosts

rolling over clay horizons

carrying tobacco stains

and old notebooks

stalled beside a fallen feather headdress

crunching over animated bones.

The smoke rings around dazzled eyes

architecture of cold mercy

I slump against a cemetery tree

cognisant of the sex of wolves

that roam between sensuous birches

factories gone silent in the background

one cool blinking light of zero

in the nebula heart

watching to be sprung from emptiness

the bulkhead of mysterious form

Piles of smashed diamonds

glittering like frozen rain

zones of poets enchained

in golden vines

grasping at their cloaks

of sensual doom

I passed the embankments

of buried coin and unsealed bottles

dribbling the blood of weary times

through a transparent earth

the lanes of constructed light

scrubbing lines from all my flesh

as I faded into plastic labyrinths

shores of glue drenched denim flowers

sails rippling with cloudy skulls

the frills of an electric blade

the way a watched electron raves

Bolts in the neck of an angel

propped up by violet light

mouth pouring mixed cement

eyes glowing with formaldehyde

ladders of wet activated rubber

leading to a frozen cloud

where liquid canines walk

on a singing platform

jets of fuming water

carrying microbes

of such frenzied joy

the locks are popped by a crafty wind

the sanctum of a certain

world devouring mammal

seeded with sneering tongues.

The drop dead heart of false hopes

run through with poison water

orbs of raw mercury

sinking through the piss

trails of ragged high abandon

blood draped curvature of frost

the kingdom's entrance piled high

with disfigured forms.

You wore out your persona.

The night grew like a sea of things.

Monuments attracted mold and moss.

Revolutions congealed

into suffocating social masks.

The retina of the sun was paranoia.

The remnant of the moon

cursed and howled.

She was a woman of the graveyard

lost in an orgy of bones.

She was my last screw

standing on shattered words.