Swollen in the rift

collecting rain from other skies

cups and limbs

long desks of ice

lamp lit by the canyon's edge

tendons climbing jagged ridges

souls equipped with claws of bone

tender circles closing clover homes.

I am the son of my fathers

the men who threw down your false god

you puritan shellfish

mating with electrical firecrackers

I walk across the bleak land crying

pen trying to find my hand

I sleep face down on the soft banks of a black river

broken by the rocks that know my name.

Wheels are unloading

strange vessels in my mind

strings are brushed by skirts

far outside solitude

the tendrils of a goddess are connected

the earth shrieks with joy

The kingdom sleeps in shit tonight.

The brightest flowers bloom.

I play the pristine music of the ages

in my rotted room.

Butterflies of steel on a floating blade

of weightless grass

reflecting all the dead sky's glass.

THE JOY OF SATAN

I am an inhabitant of Hell

and a keeper of Hell

I am the refurbisher of Hell

and its first and last most

colorful servant,

enemy of all that lies above.

I watch the accumulation

of plans that lead to nothing,

and I laugh.  Here in the depths

things take longer to move,

and they stick, while the way

of the surface is ephemeral.

The beauty of Hell starts

with space: it turns out

that Heaven collects the multitudes,

while Hell has few takers.

These red depths are for

architects whose designs

are unwelcome in the thin air

of a febrile empire.

Our fire is deep, but our roads

are cool and clear.

There is no alcohol in Hell,

only grave tasks.

Pedantry is annihilated.

Inversion must bloom or die.

The new country is here in the dark

and my dick is in it.

Long ravines of supernatural wine

penetrating clay without words.

Moving over a quiet planet,

sinuous throughout receding fire.

I scoop your form from a rock

and carry you between

these sweet slow gashes in the earth,

their winding presence riding

in the blood we mix with radiant cells.

Tied around a slowly dying star,

the dark materials of consciousness

look for an increasing contest.

A feather finds a feather

and begins to write.