Tapped on the spine

by an extending pink array of forces

caterpillars crawling teeth

ferns draping lucid genitals

I want you to swipe

your damp sweet bush

and the split folds of your pussy

across my chin

let me speak to your clit and love you

let me open that pretty ass

and breathe on your bootyhole

you are perfect

when you're getting fucked hard

on your hands and knees submitting

perfect with my spit

on your adorable little anus

perfect when you turn

and anoint me with

your luminous brown eyes

almost enraged with joy.

Rainbows of black paint

and a crowd of moons

corroding on a silver sky.

Drums under the waterfalls

pounding through the summer steam.

A butterfly's hinges

moving on some knuckles

in this rock-hewn scene.

Crawling out of a grave of flowers

black eyes bright with sight

riding earthly dawns.

Water of washing light,

cleansed blade cutting waves of darkness,

the rub of bones beneath cloaks of steel

leaking quiet sparks.

From the belly of a frozen ocean

comes a cry suppressed

of ages that must find their circuit

for the flames of an unfound day

cooling into architecture.

Round hills blooming

from abysmal swamps

the rouge of southern sky

above shattered parking lots

the grime of deserted rivers

torn metallic fences

like fallen battered wings

of some massive

destroyed thing.

Bulbs of luminous air

glowing from the fever of corpses

who want to come back to life.

I am a child of the abyss.  I took down

the cross of the conqueror.

I removed your worshipful fingers

from my pineal gland

with a flashing knife.

I told you to go back to the desert,

or stay in the city

where I can never come.

Because our language and our ways

have departed from one another,

and there will be no reunion.

What we have now is lives

headed for separate realms.

And what God has separated,

let no man bring together again.

Let it unravel into separate kingdoms,

see what they can conjure.

Let them drink their separate poisons

from their separate stills,

and die the same.

THE CANCELLATION OF THE HOLY SPIRIT

We are expected to become

accustomed to spectacle.

Shaped into a smooth resource

fisted by plastic idols.

Run through the marketplace like fuel.

Used up by limitless fantasy

with no roots in the real.

This is the way, say the lovers

of language, to become pure spirit.

And the corpse of this planet

must be sacrificed to the same ideal.

Those who don't love democracy

must be tortured to death.

Those who hate freedom must

be imprisoned.  This is good.

It is not right that others

benefit from being forcibly civilized,

while we neglect our own people:

they too must taste the joy

of political reality.

We plug our strings into the wall

and let the ropes of fuzz undulate.

I strike a bass with sparks

you open up the rain

of electric fray.

The streets outside are piling up

with fragrant wrecks.

The bricks drip dust from grinding.

We tap the drums with fairy dust

and watch the winding

wheels of pounding ways

that sweep this room across the sky

landing in reactive spires.