The white web is a turtle's shell

imprinted on the dark blue bowl

of sky, and of the myriad staring through

there are multitudes musicians of the conch

light receivers and stark

lightning bringers who thug through the dark

tunnels inebriated by red bulbs

lining the ceiling bricks and the tar's languor,

motherfuckers turned to ash

on the brink of a haircut,

hearts on islands that are brimming with

little shells.

Twisted streetlight poles

on the shores brought in by

artificial intelligence, untapped kisses

in the spirit of the new that rises

among the familiar.

Castles leaking purple dust,

framed in electric exterior.

Parking meters doing math,

plush psychic lives exposed

of the eye-sucked reflection's

treadmill of anointed images,

most to memory lost, the frosted apartment

laid in paint emits a combed error

the snake of windowsills and eaves

silk handkerchief lampshade

a shade of the gone noon drooling

on the glow of the oven

and the evening gone softly to ruin.

Forepaws of twilight

beside the battered fence

astride my sunken dreams

arisen in basement trances

the king of a cardboard box.