I remember the failure of space,

a trickster prancing down a beam of fate

the costume of the goddess

trashed by bleeding cities

shining in seductive fragments

walking halls that I don't know

to appear here in the courtyard

of the frozen aristocracy

aligned with topaz eyes

from only lunar skies

and the silver lawns

of sleeping pawns

in the lines of a lunatic's palm.

The carnival of darkness

abides in beds of rich violet,

rears up with many heads

and unseen limbs,

doll's eyes vomiting soil

with a milk of metallic hue,

and I sit at my desk roofless

in a tar-caked wasteland,

waiting to see those among the dead

who would fall with me

back into this world

and rip its vain belltowers down.

Softly I refuse the dead,

put up on shelves

new parcels for the living

who have empty hands.

On a fine wire over the blooming hills

dropping blades and origami

the burnt skin on hot medallions

claws of shadows all emerging

from a shattered grain of sand.

I'm a raindrop on a leash

these paths are the trails

of ecstatic boulders

I wash artificial skies

with a foaming nozzle

I watch the real blood run down

the potato chip walls.

My self portrait is a room of repellent jewels

the prerecorded rainstorm's

crashing hallways behind other rooms

where the real tight spiritual machinery

churns the light into glowing taffy.

After all my lives have fallen apart, after all

my twisted attempts to be human have failed,

I come to this cave that bisects time

watching shit-streaked wings flow out of me

to shudder in their improvised bones,

making sure the center is always

in the wrong place, colors

empty of form for glory

scaffolds mounting over makeshift suns.

The streets were hollow

and strewn with hail.

I had my soul thrown

through your doorstep

by pallbearer hyenas

snickering in shiny suits.

You were puzzled by

the veiny wallpaper

and the rivers that coursed

between rooms.

The ogre who carried your silks

wore my face upside down.

The cups of froth

on the windowsill

began to foam and flowed

across the deep fake grass rug.

I clawed synthetic minnows

from its blades

and brought them to your mouth

for you to taste the electronic lake.

You spat electrodes singing

in my face and made a paste of me

to bless the dark material beds

that sink with galactic fissures

stretching vagrant space.

The blossoms come like little fists

this year.  The fabric torn

still has more forms to push.

Threads of mangled inertia

still pierce the wall of nothingness.

I see my face on the dying side

that the dawn hides.

I view the bloom

from somewhere far away.

If you can see me deep

inside this multiplied ravine, send me

the warmth of an echo, send me

the variance of the marching heart

when it trickles to the outskirts.

In the veins of the earth,

waiting with a helmet,

cape and spear.  Trades of the surface

all banished from possibility now.

The shine of furniture,

vibration of hidden knives,

the swinging chains of fortune

all carrying a meaty hook.

From the shade

of disheveled metaphysics,

the gathered stalks

grown from a seed of blood,

my mustache exits reality

the rhyme-raked mirror remains.