Fists full of pink flowers

thorns that intertwine

behind pouting lips

the swollen walls of the house

left behind above a smoking ruin

on a high and sloping cliffside

detached from the town of wires and pipes

soul's form is the sheath of the blade

that cuts away all.

Glass shards on a tar stained concrete hillside

seams leaking poisons to remake the world

painted lines pointing

to some splattered fortress walls

no message from the obsolete numbers

stacked high in thick fluorescent tides.

I am a remnant of banished America

you can tell by the clever shape

of my mutating scars

walkways lead to the insensate grinder

I watch from the weird strength

of twisted trees

I creep under humming concrete bridges

with my sacks of rejected merchandise

making robotic battery powered spiders

that recite the Constitution of Hell

blue jays and bright red cardinals

are landing on the smoking line

where I am jolted

drinking your intoxicated messages

now burst and fading to some greater sky

I see roses that are flames

on the lips of the dead of the earth

and the speech of days past

scattered among pages left behind

city squares left empty

with painted pavements

high windows home to the ghost

looking out alone from wounded portals

tongues of memory are blades in the air

scents of kisses withdrawn

are the thorn in every cushion

cute mechanics of excreting corners

seams of living beams

lashed to the levels of descending hives

Eyes turned into the guts

nightclub to nightclub

carrying the colors

that we'll wear into the reptile dark

coiling around fecund foundations

piercing flesh that elevates

a cage of blinding light

from funnels in the deep unknown above

that filter thick angelic blood

to shapes on shelves of dust

blinking with injected life

fading fast in fragments

each bright shard in its reflecting box

I ripped a box out of my head

dumped out the golden thread

that squirmed in cotton insides

while the ornaments were sprayed with soul

cabins of glass in vapor

looking over graves that squirm

handles that lift up the earth

submerged in ways of fire

filth a roving eyeless claw

I've been turning to the times

when we were mysterious,

letting all the scenes of love cluster

above ten trapdoor clouds.

Moving with my ghosts

over slick silent cafeterias,

table to table picking up empty glasses,

waiting for the light that spells my name

and burns a day's layer of skin.

Slabs of merciful weight

landing on the enemy.

Tangled fires and flowering corpses,

the shit of exploded babies

splattered on the shards

of ruined architecture.

Tablets of hidden machinery

invading tormented minds.

Screens of forced telepathy

beaming from transparent walls.

The lovers fled, they died

on the last green hill.

Skeletal limbs of automatic minds

that take themselves apart

and leave no heart

are all that's left behind.

Diamonds of glorious hatred

beaming from the phalanx of dead souls

that inhabit the machine palace

each one filling up a second body

with gelatinous pus,

discarding all the flavor of existence

for an empire of bones.

Frozen entropy begins to thaw.

Awakening is painful.

Then the orgasm of battery acid.

Teeth leaking on an oily cement floor.

No more dreams except for death.

Seed flung on charcoaled climes

brain sucking off the spirit's hair

those flowing filaments of nonentity

all blooming into darkened space.