We make love on a pile of the dead

pulling manna from the sky

with a mysteriously free hand

cloud machines fall up into

rapaciously receiving space

missile shithouses

hats of the pretentious damned

benumbed eyes flooded with mercury

hearts and stomachs exchanged

in a dark process

we will wind the streamers

salvaged from this disintegration

around our radiated forms

and sweat the harm of many letters

through their fibers 'til the clay of flesh can live.

Away from diabolic human voices,

the stream laps a fertile shore.

Seeds are converted from solitude

into raging networks of another kind.

These are the ties that bind, not literate society.

This product is ironic in its guise.

Even my pen trusts the deeper tides,

and not its assembled printers.

Gravity is a posterior truth.

The eyes don't know it

unless they are firmly anchored.

Dancing is the pivot of my dirge.

The monolith does not impress death.

The outer hegemon has grown

beyond touch and influence.

I would rather play in the ruins.

Your paragraphs grow dim

inside the corridors they inhabit.

Nobody can visit your narrow gallery.

Only the violating alien can vibrate,

fecund and flowery.  Open the forbidden bowery.

Ravines of crimson salt

lighting up under a flaming moon.

Stubs of signposts torn and chewed

to rotting fragments long ago.

Appearances set up onstage

playing music to match

the gurgling sewage.

In the channels formed

by plunging stars, going

to the outer realms

of endless waste and fine

sublime extinction, consciousness

can find me spiritually laughing

in a ritual that few have known.

Fire me from the zone.

The land is closed and kept.

Drones constantly scan for outliers.

No quiet outpost can be left alone.

We are compost for the new

man-created gods.  They make

a devious geometry

from all our shit thoughts.

This is the world you've bought:

you'll fight for its right to kill you.

Protest for a state-approved death.

Advocate more humane destabilization.

Futility is your birthright.

What's mine?  Not the emptiness I explore

with glee: it doesn't need to be.

I'm free to let go

of everything you can't see.

NEW COMMUNITY GUIDELINES POLICY

Don't question group illusions.

Attack the antisocial.  Anyone

who questions group illusions is antisocial.

These visions are necessary for Big Projects.

Want to take the sandwich

out of your own mouth?  Don't be a fool.

Never doubt our Machine's superior genius.

Let the outlines of your soul be traced.

Trust the human race.

Language will be provided for you.

Use it liberally in the Assigned Free Speech Areas.

Staying Linked is priority number one.

We can regenerate the dying sun.

Control the weather for your wedding party.

Make pregnancy happen on a proper calendar,

approved by many others.

Post the pictures, scan for

antisocial tics.  Avoid germs.

Lick only synthetic lips.

Send text to accompany your Safety Partner.

Your fortress on the highway

can visit many hospitals.

Change sex, change consciousness.

Be a sport and sign on

for meticulous adventure.

Never be alone again!

Strip down and hit Send.

Triggers laid in thick subconscious flesh

strings of letters lost in an abyss

thorn electrodes figured in a kiss

the roads that flow from an enforced silence

oils of obsolete profanity

leaking from a dislodged glacier

a skeleton throwing stones

assembled from a mold

of fabricated bones

the housing that replaced our homes.

A black sun of life

washes the scummy oceans.

The midnight of renewal

brings forth stars that were drowned.

Angels of a deep fecund abyss

land on this ruined town.

Multiply the deer in every park!

Stop all the cars, dash through

their linear haze.

Let all our days be babies,

let babies be all our days.