Your visions of humanity

are all bereft of blood

and null and void of taste

to poison horns of light

with masks of gray

and pull the plunging ink tongue

from the frothing brink

where sinking ships

are filled with laughter

and pearls return the grain

that gave them form.

How I long for a revival of the heart,

to see the dawn drip with ancient promise.

A plank paved by galactic violence

leading endlessly to altered space.

Sanctuary of salacious mercy,

take me into your neon crunch.

Teach me to shed my seed

on this wavering canvas,

move me into a resounding spark.

How deep in the true

bubbling heart of dark

rich water you go,

bouncing back from every abyss

to dance in a gilded frame,

bronze fingers clinging

to pearl plugs

you emit thin strands of purple anima,

egglike stones attend

your firmly calloused feet,

you stand on my soul

as the evaporating savior,

a mirage love made

from stone to stand alone.

Cutlets of angelic bodies

ladders from the clouds

that look like frozen cream

and act like fractured letters.

Docks where collapsible castles

are unloaded in the secret night.

Towns laid out beneath a ledge of rock

shells crawling underwater.

The quill of light

found trembling in the meat

of these entities fallen

cousin of the knives

scattered at the kingdom's gate

assigned to furnace earth

injecting brainlike fluid

for the spiritual machinery of caves.

I can feel the mystery of the fungus

growing in every vein.

Peach fuzz phosphorescence

glowing on epidermal armor

fresh from the storm of the ages

that is eating the sky.

Death is coming in a thousand disguises,

raining on walls of steel with relentless music,

hiding in the balls of sand with balloon skin,

splattering the rails that hold

a throne of fecal ice.

Light is leaking from my toes

and from my shaded hands,

I must see the scattered rays

that link it to a fading shore.

February's looking for the fool.

Here I am, here I am.

The trees dissemble and the low sky

drools in plastic spirals.

Next year is already cut

into drifting pieces.

The paths are made by metal burning

through uncertain earth.

These stumps are painted breathless

by the spinning of

imprisoned machinery.

I sit and wait for my pores to be filled

but infinity can't heal the breach

between flesh and stillness.

The rhythm of life is loss.

The bloom pounds down the door

and steals the scene, but the round

sanctum of the void holds.

The evaporation of existence leaves

a hammered glow.

Stunned by the depth of silence,

I play my drowning note

to play, to play, to play,

and not to stay.