The black arc of transcendence never fades.

It forms upon the vertebrae of Hades.

It rides disintegration of the forms.

It finds the structures buried in the storm.

It focuses its light where all rhymes end.

Free verse going forward, mouths

and genitals intertwined.

Music of the fluids, harmonicas

and saxophones pushing space,

giving way to a great lady.

Stars basking in her shoulders,

robes of fluffy light

adorning navel and nipples,

nappy pubis and outstretched

intelligent hands.

Sperm pouring out of

the cracked and singing heavens,

wombs filling up with

her shared light, goddess of the margins,

face of generations expressing

the dance of orbits,

the terrible necessity of things in trajectory,

bursting the inertia of what is drifting

having already died.

No angel is sane.

These mossy doors

open only in the dark.

A lime sun lurks behind

a fertile midnight.

Many flowers drop petals

on a lake of frozen wood.

How did the grain get into water?

I go into these fine lines

to find the tasted soil

of my real ethereal maker.

Wings flex tents of bright

transparent skin around

a heart that's mammal warm

in its reptilian phase.

Phrases turn into books,

kisses become whole families.

An angel must be mercury

in the thermometer, must indicate

the atmosphere in frolicsome silver

and never become a part.

An angel as a hinge

becomes the warp of art.

The female keeps

the necessary part.

May this era be forgotten.

May its people be erased.

May the Earth regurgitate our shit

and drown the human race.

May the verbiage be cancelled.

May the customs choke in piss.

May its figureheads be melted

in the masses' mindless midst.

May the sunlight be your cancer.

May thick vines erupt your ribs.

May the moon bring hammers

to your womb now that it's come to this.

May machines forget their makers

and the memories they stole

may they all go down to dust

inside this civilizational hole.

May the generations numbered

with an artificial scheme

be aborted by existence

which was never meant for them.

HALLOWEEN IN HELL

Ghouls dripping out of unknown darkness

with no taste save for electric light

dissect the mind, dissect the body

discover nothing

blame their emptiness on some infernal blight

that none can understand

because they stay too close to robot schooling

and lose touch with the breathing of the land.

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.