Bridges of lava

beautifully frozen

footprints of blood

on fine chaotic arcs

limbs like vines reaching

mottled with poisoned water

over chasms roaring

with the vacancies

of rushing time.

For the glory of open skies

shot through with the poison of sunlight

let me add a little to mankind's misery

sow seeds in disintegrating acorns

between the iron of discarded rails

and the wings that are kept in the yard

of things that quack and cluck

this grassy shelf kept clear

in the abyss of yesterday's luck

watching clouds congeal

into painted stones

for a cyclops' hand alone.

A gilded dome inlaid

with heavily breathing flowers

and fan blades of turning script

the semblance of redacted lives

dancing on a marble floor

with feather footed ghosts

and gypsies moving hips

all streaked with a warden's blood.

My throne of straw

in a quiet corner

fingers of ink and vaginal secretions

cakes of brine from a heaving shore

of thinking tentacles

mop bucket of lavender cloth

for the aftermath of sloth

and an era of razors

carried past the palace lasers

and the dawn of vast empire's

grotesque death.

A stripe of gold across the sky

with hues of yellow, blue and white

dissolves against the distant stars

and melds with carousels of night

the veins of which are astral souls

that don't put on the guise of flesh

their dances reconfigure leaves

in which the sap of trees enmeshed

a human poison, held within

that blossoms poison on its wrecks

the kernel of our demon nature

embedded in its reticence

the cautious bonds that are not cautious

save to our deceitful eyes

we sever all that nourished us

and in the end deserve to die.

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.