I am the underworld.

Sleep in my paws.

Later in the violated morning

we'll come up with claws.

Scratched and sun drenched faces

sex behind a charcoal fence

pomegranates and peaches

pine needle prints on flesh

the spray can alleyway nights

that made the neon con our home

Blackberry thornbushes under the bridge

teeming in edges and corners

that feed on the threads of the sun

giving sweet black blood to the mouth

breezes blowing thorns across ragged concrete

as I listen to the scratching sound

and imagine the tail of a dragon

swishing across cluttered lots

getting ready to strike sparks

from the armor of death.

Rip out the throat of Christ,

and the money machine will follow.

Rip out the spiritual hierarchy

of eternal death for all.

Strip away this religion of money,

tear down the fetid cross

and the curse of obedience.

Tear down this citadel of lies,

this government of death.

May the ghosts of all our genocides

rise up throughout the levels of our system.

May they join an eternal mind

that crushes all our schemes.

May the Christian church

in all its manifestations

be cursed upon this earth:

may its every edifice

be used as a depository

for sewage.

And may the goddess of the new

remove our reason and our numbers

make our garden spill again

and recreate.  The path to beauty

leads through hate.

BUCKHAMIAN JIHAD

This poet's hatred is for you, America:

take it into the core of your spirit,

and may it make you sink.

May you be stripped

of all your counterfeit glory.

May you be stripped naked and ugly

before all other nations.

Let your discolored shit be seen.

May the breath of your people

be torn away: may you

be sacrificed to the rapists

who praise your name.

Let the hatred of all good people

land on you in all its

torment and disgust,

and may you be buried

in a litany of your own filth.

May your foul name always

remain anathema among us,

may a rain of articulate curses

follow every vapor of your trail.

Spirits in the desert

trying to light a little way

remembering forest roads

shaded by vast shuddering branches

hoping to be in their green maw

when the attacked sun comes

watching arrows fly like minnows

across a flooded sky.

The rails of dreams are broken

on the groundlessness of liquid frames

brains are worming across

the slats of fallen artificial skies

mushrooms painted bleak with milk of rye

supporting renegade daffodils

and tulips of lightweight stone

kissed in an artificial correction.

Leaves whispering of other fates

the melon tasted deep

behind a purple veil

and many elaborate cushions

bird love clacking bamboo

I caught life like a steeply recurring flu

to be here among the phantom birches

ringed in frogs

and fallen castles of the damned

where the blood stands

with a pursed and overflowing mouth

northern madman in a madman's south

feeding pigeons with a dead man's bread.

Darkness has become luminous.

A thousand eyes shine

out of the fiery pit.

The xylophone of souls

is splayed and supportive.

Howls of extreme orgasm

send veins of cool red light

across the moon.

This realm so long exaggerated

is both breaking down

and becoming real.

Grab the face of my false race

and begin to peel.

Tin foil maps.  Raw glassy

stuffing.  No end of

new features.  Closets in closets,

corridors in corridors,

the smell of concrete walls

giving way to a lovemaking rug

where centuries escaped can shrug in oil

ecstatic toward reborn clay

where day is many pronged

and growing roots in infinity.

Poverty creates divinity.