Clay footsteps filled with oil
trail from electronic towers
bundled in light, cumming wire
across clawed sky.  Crumpled
goddess on a park bench,
streaming with  urinating newspapers
and trash can speakers, foaming with
the relative innocence of death,
mouth cloaked in a rictus of styrofoam.
Seedpod's fluff
on the daughter of nightmare clouds,
circulating backwards violin
through iron fences of lipstick.
And her hands on an eaten bird's twilight,
thumbnail's door to the world of slate
dancers who never lie down.