Tentacles of ephemeral fluff

retreating from the light of hate

shores of naked angels on plastic sand

shadows loving under tentscapes

of plaster branches

wasp wings moving over marble sheen

Vines from death

reaching over abandoned racetracks

flowers of a raging bulb

that knows the grip of soil

worms flicking the beginning

of angel wings in blood gravy

long tubes of light that linger

in dead halls

a walking spine

that flounders like a sleeping dancer

the stench of millennia

all gone from a long bone bridge

the flanks of passing ships

alive with tangled circuits

their cycles winding closer

to the sanctum of the pilot clown

one pyramid of clear glass

under fiber optic oceans

bioluminescence simulated

by a dragging hand

The reins of spirit snapping

in the furrows of galactic night

where orbs are born from burning mercy

rails of a vaporous train

rivers of electric mud

scorched thorns in arabesque of longing

smashed maps of many lamps

ghosts limping over dream-born mattresses

chains leaking from a ruptured iron cloud

that the seamstress of these wastes allowed.

The vein that goes all the way down

bronze light of divine tentacles

faint bubbles of broken speech

seeping into space

from a cave of pearl rapture

purple pentagram neon eyes

and pinball paddle thighs

the mask pierced by handcuff capture

heartbeat's colored panels turning

lane to prismatic lane.

Cocooned within the wreckage

with these laughing scars,

past loves revealed as psychosis,

quartz walls around remembered parties,

treadmills of omega

scriptures written in unyielding steel

somewhere in an active cloud system

the poison knife is tracking electricity

walls go up like wings to ride

the wind of death to rumors of a different life

untangled into grim surrender

cloves of purple rent from gray

stacked flowers of concrete

on caving plaster.

The culture of zombies

is now complete.  Look around you

at all the repeating heads.

Their precious politics, their brave religions

are all gone, and they don't know it.

The wheel descends a strange

rotating spire.  Sparks are tossed

like flares into the granary.

I kneel in the dark

and protect my drums.

I take up the feather dress

of the once departed

forever to return.

I chant like a beggar in my last

clean linen.

What was it that the ring

of mindless eyes told you to do?

How did you get so good

at walking sightless?

I no longer scream these questions.

A new kind of amusement

trickles through from the divine.

The horns of a goat grow

from unbitten flesh.

The mesh of souls

is upon me now

I can see them without their smiles.

Leather wings cover up the miles.

The surface of infinity is

rounded and soft.

There is a home for consciousness

in all that's lost to this fleeting moment

known by its rotting fruits.

But only flesh can satisfy the dead

flesh and its tired morsels

painting adult playgrounds

and their chain door handles

with the traffic of a deeper red.

I'm in a place where

there are no fathers

and blue light just crawls

up the walls

the realm of the egg

in radiant smoke waves

the cliffs I climb

on the inside of a wheel

the fences grab at space

with their granulated screens

the dancers whip ribbons

and raise daggers of black glass

against a sourdough moon

wet paths web their way down

to a citadel of glue

each step sprayed with rock dust

for the myths that must implode

among melted pillars

forced air for a swinging hammer

ravines between the strands

of a statue's hair.

In the offices of the damned

I am a blooming flower

against a red wall with many tendrils

sucking dew through sterile windows

brushed by shiny shadows

under tubes of trapped light

thin layers of plastic diamonds.

Egg circuits sending signals

on some quiet upper floor

these chains of yearning

aisles of scarred squares

the prices of life and death

glowing stillness on a silk glove.

The heel-marks there

pressed back from some fine orb

blood fallen, sinking in

not carried by the wind

sun torn by hooks that spring

from rotting flesh

a nest that sighs and strangles

in the fizz of smashed words

paths of fire mark the stone sides

climbing to unborn heaven

the wrecked ghost has a marble shine

his slumber on the snow is strange

these clouds of wire remember

their dreams were

of an order without change

but I am the ax shattered

into arrowheads

as if the shaft mattered

light breaking from a shadow's prison range

In the cast of wind carved bone

that brought a skin sail

with tortured eyes

to the brink of this fecund abyss

in a map of lilac

the womb heaped with ashen echoes

has stretched its catch tubes

under twisted bridges

pinning me to streams of dripping berries

thorny tongues of eternal lungs

flagging soil from ethereal space

the soul that's taken root

in this desire

winding water with fire

in a maze of smoke stained glass

colored coils of a sweetly sleeping dragon

veined catacombs digesting time

bronze corridors of blood like lime

this ligature of lips and vine

orgasmic death's deceiver

bent fingers on a harp of living gold

Roads flaring over baked hills,

clouds reaching with translucent leaves,

cemetery rivers choked and churning,

blue blades painted on

bright red doors.

Songs drowned in the depths

of machinery,

rooms in which we sang

now rented to unmoving strangers,

eyes staring in a dark

we never knew.

Mountains climbed by my

childhood body

now far from me

as the bottoms of teeming oceans

winds cut by rock

whose curvature maps the sun.

Painted faces peel off

on the surface of

a bioluminescent river

coursing through conversant

rocks and mud

machinery of ancient calendars

owl eyes in mercury

the hatchet thrown in a fit of rage

circling like a boomerang.

Stars torn by flecks of falling space

the oval frames of one way doors

opening galactic tongues

for dancing mortal blood

a throne of ice on some Las Vegas stage

a glitter cage for gnashing fangs

and wet bone breaking eggs

divinity of dregs and ruts of gold

floating kiosk where the spine is sold

to magic formulas

cold vials of guts with angel

wings branching from turbulent labels

to translucent floors

feathered archways where

the acid pours

black wind on twisted letters

a moon of bedsheets

and a valley in knots

before a red torch

scum oceans sliding over

persistent boulders.

Blades of light cross ruddy canyons

filled with sexual information

and the crumpled wicks

of past days floating

in the stream of death

that they have fueled

and that now discards them

blazing and pointing

to a holographic cavern

coagulating in dark matter and filled

with the dashing and unreal

unmasked imposters in an age of masks

slime filling their flasks

with the spiceless gleam

of our cowardly blood

as the deity chews gum

and wears velvet gloves

cuffs chained to an infant above.

Ink sores on the balcony

eyes watching that already know

soul's fecund octagon in neon raving

with labyrinthine lines

that inch like signs

that nothing's reaching

amber solitudes in paused rain

the fronds and cracking arcs

of geometrically linked geodesic cemeteries

long kisses in a serpentine embrace.

The poisons of earth

and the poisons of man

I drink from a goblet

made from my own clay

the sick tree is still blossoming

I watch the rivers of the sky

tug and move across the immaterial

mountain peaks are crackling with fire

down here in a pocket pool

between stones and slender birches

I am bathing nude as a bird

in the finery of my nimbus

a cyclops with the semblance of a vulva

watches me over these hazy hills

I let the reel run unlike time

a mind within many minds

is painting on walls of waitresses

the sun is stuck in honey

and it can't get out

lend a paycheck to this yielded body

watch the fangs of light retract

into a mist of souls, all desire

decoded by the bark

that falls like paper on water

a dock of iron stretches

over the land to a plush

furred rubber chamber

where sight resides in snakes

that neither linger or labor

the fungal reek emerging later

than the blood and dirt

the wire skirt of droning cicada

beam of lilac on a screen of dying

saviors of a straw man's prayer

for vacancy's exploding neighbor

in the harbor of the fertile dark.

Vacuum sealed souls

in their carefully curated worlds,

masks finer than any skin

legs on stilts longer than any

living architecture, jewels laid

deep in self-made wounds,

wings furling with a fabric

of burnt blood

the seeds of a corrupting flood.

With wisps of imperturbable metal

my raft of pulsing fungus

arrives on time

sprouting screens of old movies

and lactating vines of plastic

bundled around red bulbs of light

snake heads of rising steam

split boards glued to a larger beam

nailed into a slab of twilight

with luminous pegs

pierced eyes on piercing blades

the waving of a peacock flame.

Days have huge cubbyhole shelves

towering over the expanse

of their rising and setting high beams

hot wired lamps in hot wet compartments

bubblegum bulbs that burst like galaxies

out of a nullifying light

from the swallowed womb

made to walk a thin shoreline

eating snails from fallen bark

until the fanged fish come

to fight with my bones

in the vast skull where gunslingers

talk over aimed muzzles

and fire spills like milk

over a pale horizon

these ragged kisses are the shrapnel

of some long departed world

hurled from the shell that was hurled

and strangely wanting

frame glinting from around the painted hole

submerging with its chain of souls.

The sky is vast and violent and

my bones are a chicken's death

I see the possums climbing trees

before and after flying fences

and bouncing trash cans

their eyes are beady and unperturbed

and mine should be too.

Talent is a way to spend time

not some transcendent insight

no epiphany will save you

you have to eat shit and die

like everyone else.

Shapes come out of the dark with radiant form

veins drawn to the height of electric wires

I see hellfire crawling over me like meat

I see the roads dragged by painted corpses

I see rancid thugs digging

with diamond studded shovels

and the tents of steel with proud windows

framing holographic kings

the howling deception of history.

I am a bent hysteric

tapping a twig in my blood

to mark a blank sail

with the harm that stars and soil

have done to me

these trails of healing loneliness

that lead to everything true.

Richness of spirit is smashed

on these waves of shit

but the orb of eyes at rest

rises to drift godlike over all

and sends down myriad mute

dancing messengers

dogs of warless lightning

leashes lashed to hands of fog

bones flying on velvet webs

alone in a creaking town

I see the rubber dome slide over

crackling machinery of stars

behind the milky screen

bricks rotating in spiral torsos

headless beauties poised in antiquity

flags of silk in wind that toils

projected from the dark interior

of a horned atomic angel

dice bouncing in the alleys

where the music surged in painted ways

those fire escape days.

Leviathan drowned in a bathtub

purple vines encasing the old fortress

where stones become reptilian crawlers

gardens gash order with order

liquid walls are open to the sky

in courtyards where the sight of extra stars

blooms backbrain on an air plateau

I'm a torn goner

under the many skins I have worn out

this hand grenade heart is ready

beauties glide bars of frozen light

to my hands that are shackled

to their willing strings

I sing what the sirens give me

bronze arrows ejaculate wombs

palm trees with metal tentacles

the skull is a symbol of consciousness

no longer taking part