from a busted tent flap and a poison pen,
from the avalanche of dead deeds
gathering in juniper
next to the recorded funeral,
from the shit stains in the Bible
from the beauty of empty skyscrapers
from the veins let out of the failing body
from the radiation that spreads
like ferns and lace
over frozen farms and laughing
holographic ballerinas,
from the war paint become permanent
on the wreckage of my soul,
from the tongue of savage life
investigating a fresh fissure,
from the barricades of salt
peppered with burnt sperm and eggs
of the last survivors,
from the braids of steel
on a ship of glass caged light
that blinks back at a sentient sun
when the thunder has pissed the bed
at the end of articulate lightning,
when the cords draw tight
on mere rhetoric's ashen throat
from the womb of alien dreams
I will slide down the blade smiling,
sketching the cave of ink-black seed
on your emptied face
with the sorrow of one who is laughing,
watching the grates of steam pour metallic air
into the lungs of the underworld,
watching it gather there
in clumps of ethereal bramble
in a land without atmosphere,
seeing the kiss above a vacant plateau
lose its bodies of destiny
and its sanctified plans,
losing its assembled meaning
and its cool invading afterlife,
losing its curse words and the blind
faith alleys that shoot out from
its diseased blueprint
like the bones of falsely animated wings,
from all that whistles strangely under the ocean
and bristles in a cloud of decaying thoughts,
from the existence that singes the exit
I sing of an American world.
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