The goblet full of engine oil

stains your teeth with sacred grease.

You belch balloons whose rubber skin

is tattooed with a money museum.

The corridors of stale treasure

extend through the profundity

of an empty galaxy.

They injected themselves with fat,

ate gold and died,

and not one higher being cared.

They made a long documentary

about the process.

They were satisfied by their influence

upon their own decay.

They added complexity to their disease,

and celebrated that.

Their own eyes

got tired of watching them.

Their blood revolted against their veins.

They made themselves iron bodies

and plastic minds.

The new product

was more democratic than ever.

It sang the songs on time

and kept them clean.

You drink your petrol drink

and lean on leaning things.

Your conscience is the way

their sawblade sings.

The ship of clouds

is filling up with patterned rooms

swirls of finely cut artful containment

interpenetrating panes

that lock with roots

to push a rock residing flower.

In a feathered tin can

tunnel underground apartment

I am visited continually

increasingly radical females

bring all the fruits of vapor's lust

a kingdom in this raging rust

that sprouts from skeletons aging.

Hand me my kaleidoscopic knife

and my drag police deceivers

let angelic oars dip into my soul

boats of metaphysical substance

glide across my liquid universal interiors

the heart of which is in your posterior.

I tap on a glass dome

over a faintly ringing town

set my backpack down

on steps of glowing marble

I hear paradise calling

above these knots of concrete

doubled echoes kiss

the swirls of ears

around the misty ceiling

panels slide like ice dividing

theaters of quiet light

kept crackling for fragments

of divinity that doesn't need repose

paths pouring from an unseen rose

fed by magnets of a frothing fountain.

Black veils touched with yellow sauce

tie dyed tunnels through softly sighing trees

the swaying rays of elevated streets

beds drummed by fever bodies

halls creaking with passionately painted rafters

doors fluttering like massive insect wings

bells ringing on ascendant porches

rails of snakeskin covered metal

racing to a hungry moon.

SONS OF ASHERAH

The sons of Asherah shall defang

the sons of Jehovah on the spiritual plane

warriors of love who drink from trees

and fill the pods of loneliness

with furious seeds.

This epilogue's protagonist

is the fist of the goddess,

man made female appendage

is more man than ever,

the architect of silence

who will deafen the gods of speech

and eat from Asherah's mossy crater.

Radiant phalluses of thought

grow from her gnarled theater.

The preachers can survive on her dung

and be grateful for the scat they munch.

Now the mother is filled with teeth

each one marked for the heart

of a false prophet.

Their names are known,

they are proud

of their descent from reality.

The spiritual is sensuality.

Tribes in separate cages

all sharing the fate of wanderers

whose journey is never done.

They blow up their own homes.

They smash their toys

into cubes of plastic death.

A little light escapes their grip

and they chase it frantically.

It hovers over the hills

and winks like a laughing god.

TO AMERICA

You are the Beast,

hatred of life in form.

Your tentacles

are electronic death.

You rape all your children.

You make life an obscene cartoon

for discarded adults.

Your robots fuck paint cans.

You would castrate the sun.

You will melt the moon

into an energy drink.

Inhuman entity, may you choke

on the poison you feed us.

May it swell your cancerous heart,

may it burst your lungs

like an explosion of shit.

May you suffocate on the filth

inside your own blood.

I'm leaving purple footprints

on the cemetery walls

nailing letters to the totem poles

aloft in pink chains

serving landscape with the blessing

of acidic piss

peacock parrot

learning how to miss.