I've been turning to the times

when we were mysterious,

letting all the scenes of love cluster

above ten trapdoor clouds.

Moving with my ghosts

over slick silent cafeterias,

table to table picking up empty glasses,

waiting for the light that spells my name

and burns a day's layer of skin.

Slabs of merciful weight

landing on the enemy.

Tangled fires and flowering corpses,

the shit of exploded babies

splattered on the shards

of ruined architecture.

Tablets of hidden machinery

invading tormented minds.

Screens of forced telepathy

beaming from transparent walls.

The lovers fled, they died

on the last green hill.

Skeletal limbs of automatic minds

that take themselves apart

and leave no heart

are all that's left behind.

Diamonds of glorious hatred

beaming from the phalanx of dead souls

that inhabit the machine palace

each one filling up a second body

with gelatinous pus,

discarding all the flavor of existence

for an empire of bones.

Frozen entropy begins to thaw.

Awakening is painful.

Then the orgasm of battery acid.

Teeth leaking on an oily cement floor.

No more dreams except for death.

Seed flung on charcoaled climes

brain sucking off the spirit's hair

those flowing filaments of nonentity

all blooming into darkened space.

Hair of seaweed wrapping incandescent flesh

ripples of metallic sky hardening against geysers

of breath unleashed by dying poets

calendars all flung away

cells bathing in blue fire

eyes of all desire

glowing over deserts and abandoned ranches

rows of frozen cornstalks

clacking as the wastes flower with useless beauty

sprawling towards the nowhere which is ours.

Muscles twitch like the alarm of fish

towers tremble on plains of tar

the slime of life climbs labyrinth foundations

fangs of light erect from temple gates

and gobble sleeping walkers

grates scrawled with graffiti

crashing down on rubber bones.

The tongue feeler

erupted from some intestinal miracle

protrudes from gray lactating rubble

scrambling thick air

with its fingering fright

fills crumpled lungs with bamboo butter

looking for the suns that won't ascend.

Slaves of programmed fortune

tickling the doorsteps of the damned

and singing death into the corridors

of separating worlds,

lit by poison light and licking

wounds that never heal

with charms attached

to tongues that are defunct

yet take their painted place in orbs

that hang from chaos in chains

ensnared in burning dark that never ends.

I am going to shine my black,

black fucking light.

I will resurrect marvels

that the Western world has never seen.

I will drink the milk

of the evilest goddess

from her magic cunt,

and engage the angels

with tales of spiritual vandalism

successfully repelled, while they slept.

The opening of a new idiom

has squeezed my orange dry.

I paint the wall with oily clothes.

This always goes well.

What gives me life devours me again,

the ground swells with my

breathing ribs that stretch for miles.

the fathers of my language

walk with me on the planetary flesh

that grows,

fists in the sky, documented

by smoothly tracing lasers,

the victory of a demonic jackass

orgasming on thrones of frozen beef.

When the tide of mud

covered speaking wounds

my elastic heart

attached itself to rooted stone

grew gills painted in slime

and sprouted pained and lucid eyes

to stare into transforming canyons.

From the crest of heaven

plummeting to hell once more

burning through the atmosphere

of distilled time, time

and its raging cycles

that never resolve.

Passionate nights,

passionate days on this earth.

I lived my life among the cursed

because I am one of them, because

there are no others.

I picked up rocks and saw

my residence in them.

I watched the noisy places

burn down to ash

on every mangled shore.

A blade that floats in foam

inscribed with cells

in multiplying fractions

climbing volcanic rope

when the river's gone

and a sky of lumpen angels beckons.

Gates guarded by elastic veils

furrows parted by the king of mystic rails

syrup dripping down through summer.

I got chopped up by cameras

in the fragrant woods

frozen in the freezing light

that crawls rough surfaces like raging oil

hung from floating car doors

putting signatures to floating magic papers

seated in the pleasure chair

in time warp diners

that replicate in unseen webs

the gravity of certain types of flowers

has pulled me through these stinging swamps

and teeth filled jawbone museums

lonely ledges in the midst

of broken dancers in the pits

of western dressing rooms

caves attached to all the dragon's wombs

unfolding through the dripping undersides

of cubicles coded senseless

and fixed feathers of metallic birds of prey

gripping satellite antennas

cold tongues asleep on marble

all hooded by refracted pine.

I went out to climb the mounds of sugar

pulling letters from

the boxes of strangers

reading them all

beams from immovable sky orbs

scanning fractured water

embers of swollen islands

bridges flirting with ragged visibility

and the ones I'd known were gone

to the impenetrable hills

bound in fortress pleasures or

cast out to gutter prizes

red threads glittering on sun shocked bones

tresses growing in a music box tomb

whose vaults have hungered

hungered for the fallen ears of God

and the gears of his reactive rod

rented out to rotating burlesque.

Find me in the fire walker's trance

find me in the slot belonging

to a clapping coin machine

smoking by the glass walls

close to an exploding rose.

Mine is the shadowed space

between these towers of empty cans

mine are the scoundrel's wings

beating homeward nowhere

for a ring of solemn flower green relief

where electric fame's inducted into sleep.

Skies are raging with the forms

collected in an omnibus

these vertebrae balloons

ferns emerging in an empty room.

Rain delaying death comes pouring out of the dusk

memorized lusts all burned away by living flesh

the appetite of blooming canyons

calling to my mossy painted bones.

Ropes of seething memory

that tighten over ebbing cities

lax lines of light

dripping dark ecstatic praise.

Ruins of distorted tales

licked into twitching shape

by the passing of angelic rage.

I crouched in blasted rooms

stitching ink into floating bubbles

deep within the windows

holding clouds from some high abyss,

painted rust of unkept daydreams

crackling in long curved halls.

In the oven was a luminous egg

sending fractals into meditative space,

vibrant with the needle seed

threading space like gravy,

porous as the seething sun.

I took a phantom train

and attached our windows

walked the treadmill concrete

watching lights digress

water glints like mercury

among the night grasses

reflecting signs of ages fallen

easels of the wavering and damned

drone bees who lock in on dreams

and color dying high beams

festivals of bone vibrating

symphonies of sizzled milk on coal

Your visions of humanity

are all bereft of blood

and null and void of taste

to poison horns of light

with masks of gray

and pull the plunging ink tongue

from the frothing brink

where sinking ships

are filled with laughter

and pearls return the grain

that gave them form.

How I long for a revival of the heart,

to see the dawn drip with ancient promise.

A plank paved by galactic violence

leading endlessly to altered space.

Sanctuary of salacious mercy,

take me into your neon crunch.

Teach me to shed my seed

on this wavering canvas,

move me into a resounding spark.

How deep in the true

bubbling heart of dark

rich water you go,

bouncing back from every abyss

to dance in a gilded frame,

bronze fingers clinging

to pearl plugs

you emit thin strands of purple anima,

egglike stones attend

your firmly calloused feet,

you stand on my soul

as the evaporating savior,

a mirage love made

from stone to stand alone.

Cutlets of angelic bodies

ladders from the clouds

that look like frozen cream

and act like fractured letters.

Docks where collapsible castles

are unloaded in the secret night.

Towns laid out beneath a ledge of rock

shells crawling underwater.

The quill of light

found trembling in the meat

of these entities fallen

cousin of the knives

scattered at the kingdom's gate

assigned to furnace earth

injecting brainlike fluid

for the spiritual machinery of caves.

I can feel the mystery of the fungus

growing in every vein.

Peach fuzz phosphorescence

glowing on epidermal armor

fresh from the storm of the ages

that is eating the sky.

Death is coming in a thousand disguises,

raining on walls of steel with relentless music,

hiding in the balls of sand with balloon skin,

splattering the rails that hold

a throne of fecal ice.

Light is leaking from my toes

and from my shaded hands,

I must see the scattered rays

that link it to a fading shore.

February's looking for the fool.

Here I am, here I am.

The trees dissemble and the low sky

drools in plastic spirals.

Next year is already cut

into drifting pieces.

The paths are made by metal burning

through uncertain earth.

These stumps are painted breathless

by the spinning of

imprisoned machinery.

I sit and wait for my pores to be filled

but infinity can't heal the breach

between flesh and stillness.

The rhythm of life is loss.

The bloom pounds down the door

and steals the scene, but the round

sanctum of the void holds.

The evaporation of existence leaves

a hammered glow.

Stunned by the depth of silence,

I play my drowning note

to play, to play, to play,

and not to stay.

From the shroud of darkest kisses

I slipped away to a road of solitude.

Separation brightened

as the clutch of flesh

receded behind many miles.

The sound of unbothered air

became an eerie music.

It brushed my skin free

of brittle plastic echoes

that gather in commercial outposts.

Released, no embrace

could bring me back

to the neat rows of cemeteries

or the gleaming engines

carrying their fleets of shiny legs

and internal eyes.

The masks of cultural phantoms

have fallen from my form.

I am naked in the crushing weight

of unnamed forces.

Paths poured in iron

flake away like burnt grass.

How can I move these wooden limbs

now that the strings have snapped?

Who can show me the shape of things

behind the fallen facade?

Is there anyone among the senseless

who can dream themselves awake?

You move toward emptiness

in the circuits of these dying words.

Based in blue light

a cyclone's gears of metallic tendrils

lock thorns around

some interactive gel.

A seat beside the vomit pool

of self dissecting dancers

who trampled over fields of tongues

a peaceful spot to watch

turmoil and its worm army.

A tear of oil

verging on the captured sea.

Snare of daylight

tightening around the wrist

of a reluctant hand,

wounded milk

that crawls through systems

to trickle down disturbed forms,

ray that seeks disgruntled heat

and pulls the thread of threads.

Mouth of invisible zones,

peripheral halls that wind

a palace basement

to a library of painted bones.

Basket of malignant lava

make it shine for me.

I saw lilacs turn to ashes

in the driveways

of such heavenly geometry

hastened by the grease of dying bones.

Doors with bright transparent outlines

giving way to blackness

deep and rich.

Rooms with unseen walls

filling up with circular beds.

Machinery of afterlife

fronds soaked in viscera

atremble with inverted grace.

On a cold barrier

watching battered materials

cluster together and flower

with long paper blades

hung from an expanse

of planet dividers

transparent walls with

curling metal hooks

dancing in the secret confines

of a smooth reptilian costume

handing out the party favors

to a funeral parade.

Hummingbirds attack

the doghouse interior,

sipping from the pores

of a fallen adventurer,

dumping syllables of joy

on patchwork streets,

songs of love over the long

courtyards.  Angelic blades

delaying over earth, ricocheting

down the oiled guardrails,

watching a fat man gesture

shoeshine pivot on an altar of steel

lands where nobody heals,

rolls grinning in rivulets under

the hilltops, markets mopstick tall

in the alchemical dawn.

Caves full of pages

lit shelves shining

from the guts of hills

canvas pressed

by sleeping bodies in the soil

stretched between drainage pipes

and pumping pipes

running the stuff of life

the sleepwalker climbs a cliff

wide awake pigeons watch scraps

unraveled on cement capped ground

strings of the kites

that no one flies

dangling from tangled skies.

I close the door on my old life.

I put away old habits, old ideas.

It crawls up out of the floorboards

and the forest floor, it accompanies

a galactic cruiser.

It opens a store in my head.

This world is already gone.

Its ghosts play in the shadow outlines.

The streams are frozen.

The sun is a buttered disc

of artificial meat.

Orbits are escaping flies,

caught in patterns embedded

in your cyclical eyes.

This drama is the echo

of everything dead.

Pulsations are but dripping rot

all oozing through

these narrow corridors.

The view is bent: frauds

perpetuate the fraud,

and nothing real can survive here.

No weeping sacrifice,

no stubborn stoic toil,

no love on fire,

just branded disillusionment

and computer blues.

It's good to lose.

Venom lights the wick inside the bulb,

manipulates the flame

inside the dancing porcelain baby,

drives the eyes past

infinite imponderables

that retreat at top speed,

drives the eyes out through the eyes

and the soul out of the skull

to reside silently in dancing.

Venom touches gloomy corners

with chrome cones and shrinking

wheels, each turning on a fleck of dust,

each hidden gear equipped

with its own wet fang.

The splatter has a map within.

Fine parts are blotted out.

Branches grow like rivers

into the stark background.

Names are lost and form is gained

by grind.  Venom coats the stitches' lines.

I am climbing mountain rivers

to the sun, following

a cry of abandon,

following a jagged ray of light.

The rot I tread

is churning in the beds

mulched underwater,

crawling past my knees

to paint an armor

of mud upon this form

I move with pain.

Let the drum skins beat

between hollow trunks,

let beetle wings and lizard tongues

rain down.  May the current

wash me clean before I reach

the peak, the stripped sky

give me an interactive crown.

Over the planetary lobe

let the pierced horizon frown.

Trails of lace and velvet slides

a cemetery carved into a fingernail

rivers wrapped around the feet

of trapped stone angels

carrying foam boats

of plastic jewels

I am mirrored in magnolia leaves

my veins are poison vines

that climb the highest trunks

to find a resurrected sky

a pentagram is inked around

your deepest orifice

the gilt framed edges

wreathed by sticky spores

and bathed in lakes of sunlit pollen

the roads to ruined towers

are swollen tight against graffitied rails

and drummed by toxic hail.

You be the hot grenade

I'll be the stomach of steel

that catches it

the mouth that exhales smoke

translating fire into speech of many tongues

branches all caressing

from the molten heart

the fevers that make spirits flesh,

up past the barriers of bladed space

far over chariots of darkened matter

and orgasmic information

into blank angelic zones

that smell of broken chocolate,

into the most fertile wound.

All the grime of blown illusions

riding on a cloud of maggots,

inhabiting the thoughts

of a disfigured species,

tearing the sail to shreds

that dripped with captured daylight,

stuck to the hull of reality

with no relief from time.

Teeth on a chain of pink plaster

clicking for an earless breeze.

Corroded walls on limestone

reflections that embroider on the blade

dissection of the ritual assurance

that carried sleepy bones into the grave.

In the curve of winds secured by ghostly circles

the heights of ridged hills

and the smell of cracked rock,

bright eyes are the heat's holder.

The cave cups fire dances

smoke rides a fissure out into the sky.

New blood is paint before it dries.

The bridge of smoke mysteriously retracted

walls that speak through porous images

silk running down a hill of steam.

Ecstasies remembered

in fragments like blades,

sacred without number, lost.

Bronze throne of reverberation

no jewels in sight

the wings of broken gliders

trapped in treetops

banners fluttering with faded history

vines coiling in cave mouths

silver steps to a rancid sun

flaky layers coming off

with quick fried letters

landing on swollen floors.

Bring me a milk lit thistle

alert in a bucket

calligraphy of blood worms

sprayed on the soulful lid.

The light of the sun is gray

on these ruddy brown hills.

I have seen the statues fall,

I have seen them be replaced

by faint projections.

I have seen stone turned to jelly

and men become steel.

I have seen steel become soup

and nations netted hives

besieged by hyenas.

I have seen the lion shed his hair

and the shadows become maps,

rice paper ceilings

for the dwellers of caves

in the earth.

I have seen through planetariums

to the real outside.

Stars go pale with time

the distance rides in

veins of travel

red with battered clay

and living dust.

I retract my symbols

pull my desperate blade from the soil.

This tent of skin

becomes translucent suggestion.

I build a porch beneath my bones

let the forces go roving home.

Rivers on wayward courses

the delinquents of a dying dawn.

Paths wrapped around

the black hole tree

kissprints on the ice

that holds the world

curved claws on a violin

wind blowing over horned instruments

deep closets opened by a sigh

time's errors in a swarm of stung ghosts

dime turning on a statue's head

worms woven into florid patches

on the jacket of a replica cowboy

form talking from disintegrated form

checkered letters from a book of ash.

Rapture of bionic insects

taking place in inner space.

Palace rot perfumes

the pools of blood for performance.

Stage of sweat shined wood

squeaking under unreal claws.

Melted towns configured

by a crane with lancet hands.

The trench I slept in homeless

where fate became a fallen god.

Cool glass eyes

locked tight on the nothing night.

Forms lacking energy

slain on the doorstep

of a painted world.

Messiah of feces

trapped in dead wood.

Wombs of false light

no longer linked to the earth,

breeding insolence.

Bones of reptilian plastic

tapping all the harp cords

of the cage.

This world is a grave

filled with stinking bodies.

We bury our dead with dead.

I no longer see intellect

as intelligence.  I see it

as a trap.  I see the

products of mind

adding disease to the sewer.

Any death is good enough

to get away from human faces,

human voices.  Their holidays

are hell on earth, they decorate

their feces with jewels.

Trash is their fancy, helicopters

drop more dead meat

for them to feast on.  They

imprint popular brand names

on their chains and sleep

as they live, without shame

or sense.  Their presence is

a flaming fence around a squirming

garden.  My veins harden.

She likes to be licked and painted

from both sides, by two hungry avatars

while the murky ceiling plays Slayer

and rice paddies glisten

in the early evening

she watches through a dollar store telescope

me shining rows of tables

dropping lace from balconies

for me to salvage from threadbare rugs

she's got me in a web of bright

dancing pentagram rays

each beam separate from the alphabet

that once constrained my purple fangs

we are lovers laughing

on a shattered windshield

letting the engine cool

on our sinister spines.

I dream of a blank ride

of lanes that shine too brightly to be seen

deep drawers full of teeth

lines tugging at a gelatinous book

as the automatic nonentities take over

as the sun is kept behind a talking shield

I am still fucking with the soil

sheer as storm flogged hail

whipping memorized skin

skull fortresses of nanoactive clay

can take the future

I'll close car doors on all old selves

who habitually watch the timeline

mistaking costumes for pure spirit

crones enslaved by the earth

bathing my concentric grave

in the milk of a tattooed electron

cloaked by cells of a gyrating angel

whose mercy is slick,

whose hips are touching

the grit of air.

Interests, hobbies, what are those?

I only have passionate obsessions.

I see rings of thinking fire

coming for me and I want

to eat them.

What are the universal laws?

Strip them down for me,

let me ride them to glory.

Make me an example of hell's beauty.

Hang your laundry

on the power lines

outside my painted window.

Show me how the gods love.

Blow the dust from the moon,

see the metallic center.

Build ladders from flesh.

Sort out the irritating diamonds.

These pants can talk.

These elegant silks can move.

Sharks don't conceptualize pleasure.

Money drowns in rivers of itself.

But I, I can kill myself

with my own mind.

You passed and pushed me

into the dominion.

Now I'm stuck to this, a rivet

in their mountain of machinery.

I watch the seams that bust

and inject them with poison.

I glow when I'm supposed to go out.

I slide when I'm supposed to rise like bread.

I go down the hole in the street

where I won't be eaten.

Lanes of light cut through

from your afterworld.

Swirling geograms on the scarred

underside of the sky.

Coins fall from the stars

in meaningless streams.

This is the apocalypse I wanted,

and it slapped my hand away.

I won't take part this time:

the bones and their programming

can no longer hide in flesh.

The song to sing last is a sad song.

Let the audience go, let your

whole outfit burn.

The new world will come

out of the furniture.

An angle hidden in the city map

holds the poise of a granite cat.

We're on opposite sides of the glass

and the glass is gone.

The walls are rising higher than the night.

I cast my serpent hand into enfolding space

the line of lagging voices flagged and snapped

is in my shattered blood

the work of shrines requires endless offerings

doors are painted with a seer's eye

each fisted hand is a cabin of hearts

where the fires of love emit a pleasing stench

to be reported across glass bridges

I'm searching for the cinematic piston

that oils the feline spine

a spoon to fill with the light of wheat

dawn's painfully clear tables

to be lavished with the nightmares of the soul

caught fresh from the alchemist's pool

where fire licks fire

A fragment, falling.

Once I thought

I'd lift the world.

The bottom is beautiful.

The forms of life become

insular and decorate the deep

with their elaborate adaptations.

There is life down here, of a kind.

Glowing with occult blood,

sewn up in seamless lips.

Lava cooled like the blackest honey.

Am I glad to have fallen?

I have fallen.  The gravity

is good for building.

The bough up there in sun

where I hung is gone.

The surface is earlier.

Shells are flower petals

and the pressure is a permanent mistress.

I undress in fermented coils.

Cracking cells instruct me in architecture.

The mud is smoothed by weight.

I turn the hundred prepared pages.

A bubble is the dream of a brick.

A remnant is a cooling wish.

The sea has treasures it can't hide.

I ramble for a burger.

Walking to the empty station

just to wait in the stillness there.

Drinking from the icicles

that have a sour taste.

It seems the heavy engines

have moved away.

The scurrying of squirrels

in dry timber.

Curled leaves cracking

with their every step.

Ghost of my responses,

sit with me here awhile.

Let us stop preparing

and take the breathless ease

of lit horizons through

space or cells, in separate

dwelling bells.

Born brother

to the wind that doesn't know your name,

riding serpentine sidewalks

smelling all the urine of the gods,

the shade of a shouted prayer,

taking the dust mask

through a labyrinth of sacred stone,

born brother

to the flicker of a long and curving pathway,

whipping around the planetoid brain

that is a restless hive

each rafter with its row of nests

the barn where I lurked to thaw

become eternal.

A solitary wheel of ghosts

rolling over clay horizons

carrying tobacco stains

and old notebooks

stalled beside a fallen feather headdress

crunching over animated bones.

The smoke rings around dazzled eyes

architecture of cold mercy

I slump against a cemetery tree

cognisant of the sex of wolves

that roam between sensuous birches

factories gone silent in the background

one cool blinking light of zero

in the nebula heart

watching to be sprung from emptiness

the bulkhead of mysterious form

Piles of smashed diamonds

glittering like frozen rain

zones of poets enchained

in golden vines

grasping at their cloaks

of sensual doom

I passed the embankments

of buried coin and unsealed bottles

dribbling the blood of weary times

through a transparent earth

the lanes of constructed light

scrubbing lines from all my flesh

as I faded into plastic labyrinths

shores of glue drenched denim flowers

sails rippling with cloudy skulls

the frills of an electric blade

the way a watched electron raves

Bolts in the neck of an angel

propped up by violet light

mouth pouring mixed cement

eyes glowing with formaldehyde

ladders of wet activated rubber

leading to a frozen cloud

where liquid canines walk

on a singing platform

jets of fuming water

carrying microbes

of such frenzied joy

the locks are popped by a crafty wind

the sanctum of a certain

world devouring mammal

seeded with sneering tongues.

The drop dead heart of false hopes

run through with poison water

orbs of raw mercury

sinking through the piss

trails of ragged high abandon

blood draped curvature of frost

the kingdom's entrance piled high

with disfigured forms.

You wore out your persona.

The night grew like a sea of things.

Monuments attracted mold and moss.

Revolutions congealed

into suffocating social masks.

The retina of the sun was paranoia.

The remnant of the moon

cursed and howled.

She was a woman of the graveyard

lost in an orgy of bones.

She was my last screw

standing on shattered words.

A trickle of dust spreads

like a feather.

Earth is never silent

but my departed friend

is quiet now.

The roads his feet walked

will not be the same.

The gang is gone.

I see receding into space

a room of empty chairs.

I see them painted on a cliff,

the ones I've loved.  I fell away.

They hovered full of blood

while I dried out.  I left

without a reason to be found.

They are diving off the map

in many directions.  I can't

keep track from this wolf's hill

or that deer's bed

the river's shade digested

one balding eclipse

green path between

the living and the dead.

She's a pantheress

guarding the theater

she wears the necklace

of her heavy metal heroes

and many witchy bracelets

in her dreams she wields

a fiber optic brush

massive screens and thudding speakers

run their reels around her strange devotion

her sharp dark eyes and swift uncanny hands

Skulls of the stripped future

staring through a glass society

glowering between glazed leaves

spirit growing in a map of guts

lined eyes of a grindcore girl

leading me to the top of the wall

to watch the fertilizing water

the wheel grip of a bubble car

the scythe of an advertising laser

hands drinking from the glue pot's

catch of thought

cranks hatching in the vortex

threads of flesh that will forget

the pit of light's renewal

BUTLERIAN JIHAD

Cut out the tongues

of the machine worshippers.

Bury them in salt.

Remind them with the strength

of physical fire

what man is made of.

Reach into the heart

of blackest metal.

Take back the relationship

of leaf to sun.

Let lava run over the factories.

Drape alleyways in silk

make the meat of consciousness

rage sweetly in their half lit sway.

Clear the tables

and their currency away.

Sit down with the ancients

by the flower of the new.

Build some disconnected temples

on the planes of melted sand.

Join cut wires to these raw

configurations.  These instructions

never need become commands.

Let the silence stand.

They are amused by the antics

of their new master.

The arrival of sure death

leaves them unchanged.

They want to be loved

by the sucking void.

Relieved of flesh

and consciousness at once.

Glad to have no target

and no end in sight.

Floating in the vast

disfigured brain.

Freed from love and pain

possessed by purest math.

The condom holding seeds

of some god's wrath

suspended overhead.

Pragmatic congregation of the dead.

Tall rows of plastic pines

sealed up in time

the technics in the slime.

Metallic babies.  Religious robots.

The votes of empty eggs

collected in the bin of sacred waste.

Description of an unremembered taste

deployed by lipless lips

the shape of boneless hips

assimilating rivers of decay

resigned to the collapse of night and day

subsuming all.

Archives of afterthought

pulses denied

machinery for an idle paintbrush,

fresh cancer of the genitals

gorgeously on display

in feathered fractures

spirals of semi sentient rain

enfolded in a tortured realm of bodies

waves of dancing hordes

on a shrinking wire.

No formula for bright return

in the wings that churn.

Now I'm the gargoyle

adorning the temple door

grinning above the proud parishioners

waiting for bigger game.

Stormed by lice

and licking my granite chops

with a gasoline tongue.

Letting the pointed archway

play my ribs

like a felt xylophone hammer

watching a beauty clad in cheesecloth

flee into the forest

where I am preparing to go.

Prowling in Medusa helmet and drag

I will inhabit each tree

and watch her from

the silent storm within the wood.

Torment of fools in cages

drinking mugs of rancid petroleum

a bad joke in God's image

counting pebbles beneath a bridge

to calibrate the destiny of fleas

the roles of dancing chairs

a velvet noose above the roaring flame

a butchered name.

Bones reaching through rings of vapor

fresh horizons of captivity

disguised as fate.

The realms of seed gathering plastic

have opened up.  The heart finally

buried in granite has

closed its magic eyelid

on the defined and dying world

eclipsed by shards

of what it broke in birth

a spirit killed by flesh

suffocated in language.

Vampires were rising out of the earth,

injecting me with electrodes,

wrapping my treasures in barbed wire

pooling my blood into an advertising program,

monitoring my cells for signs of revolt,

nailing me to a cardboard cross

and a defecated slogan.

Waking to the next dream, I was whisked

through imagistic air conditioning,

spat through duct after duct

chute after chute mastered by molecules,

beds flying from dissection stations

to reassemblage stations

calibrating with a snicker

monolithic to a fault forensic soul.

Pain takes on definition.

The seasons grow in shape.

Architects of mercy

turn to savages.

New lanes open in the way

they used to go.

Orchard of a waning hand

each apple with a desperate shine

and a seedless center.

We are partners in loss,

the contest is over.

Time will write

with its syringe of mercury

into the sea.  Magnetic zones

will eat up the suns to come.

I burn an herb whose name

I do not know.

Rivers of paint flow over

the bulging doors.

The end glows.

A chain of basins

galaxies in budding rows.

I went to the cemetery of unmarked graves

looking for a friend who knows

their names and places

to walk with and remember.

He was absent--I felt he might

be gone for good.  Without a guide,

I climbed the paths of bone-filled hills.

I don't know the names or their places,

but I know the spirit of this place,

its rhythm and emerging crests,

angles added by this tortured continent,

its heaving body.

I know this pocket of recycled cells

cooling between raw trees

and uncaptured breezes.

I have watched all the ideas die.

Yet beauty remains.

The dancer hides

her scrambled brain

with a fan.

I give her my life savings,

which is easy to do.

The stool turns

like a flying saucer

as I scan the polished wood

for meaning, am glad

to find none.

The lights of strange departures

are warping the dome

of the local sky.

An empty lake opens

elsewhere, filling

a depleted clearing.

Empty means empty of creatures,

crowded with lonely molecules,

meaning not lonely at all, and then,

never having been described.

In a cleft between silent neighborhoods

shrouded engines tick like dying clocks.

I wake up walking

on a rope between bedroom windows.

In a spectacular flash

I am falling through erratic air

surrounded by squirrels

who are also falling.

I fall asleep in anesthetic snow

behind a dump of discarded machines.

I haul myself up from dreams

to find books in the rubble.

The kisses of yesterday are far away.

Time is not kind to its prisoners.

I am glad to be filled with dirt

and among sinners.

Pines pointing and the deer in my blood

each icicle star.

I follow the arc of leaping stars

of all things not yet governed,

all things escaping notice or

never to have been, sweetest

valley of all, valley of oblivion.

Hilltops are crowned

with ruddy light, mist

binds the magnificence.

Streams descend from

rock gardens, many guardian

reptiles are in attendance.

On the banks of this great

transformation, I am not transformed.

I am found on rooftops at odd

hours, I am wandering with the damned.

I am still watching the natural things

bloom in their decaying way,

yearning for nothing to happen

again and again.

I swam in cardboard space

and surfaced in hotel tubs

appearing in the dreams of others.

Searched the houses of the dead

for keys they lost

to some invisible kingdom.

All the trails ended in darkness.

Under the architecture of the old stories

a new story was repeated.

Mountains of teeth

guitar strung vertebrae

night doesn't need to talk back.

Waves of haunted appliances

ripple after ripple of elastic shells

crackling to suck the fiber of animation.

In the edited flow of time

on the sand still hot after sunfall

one cursed and glowing seed

need of the infinite

crammed into this breaking cell

the glory of numbered beasts

this infamous coupon.

Wheels turning all around me

will continue, altering their form

rectangular mirrors will flow

sideways, carried by star spangled

beauties of the realm

for whose form licking frames

of metallic paint crucify

the kittenish image,

engines in a long line

to see the dance of a chartless era,

cherry villages besieged

by tumbleweed steam

the crossbeam's frost in stages

dining on resplendent plastic

draped in unmoving flame

blood colored vines on theater walls

these shadows in historic clothes

the light of a keychain galaxy

all rent for mending

the gears of unthinking voids

have found a voice

ferns of death are resurrection ferns.

Born on a hovercraft

drinking scenery from the baby bottle

watching the vast cat families

climb the wild trees

panes of an eroding game

claws toned on the bark that reacts.

Whimpers in the longest hallway

the accumulated palace enfolds.

Shrines there are beautifully

abandoned, sparse with decoration

lined with expressive teeth.

Lobbies of the cinematic tongue

clicking automative perfume lockers.

Paveways of the Truck-A-Lot Fantastic

coral reefs on either highway side.

She lives with her hands in the earth.

She watches the chickens.

Branches have fallen in the backyard.

She rewires the wires.

Stones from the garden

line the walk.

No one is a match for any other.

Galactic freckles

pushed by some far off expanse

dimes washed by rain

just a scattered handful

ghosts waiting in airports

ghosts waiting in bus stations

weight carried back to its maker

in a bronzing time

aisles built by frost

between the deepest trees

Cliffs of cheddar

crowned by garlic boulders

herbs and mushrooms sliding

into boats of burning leaves

a clay mask on a satin pillow

body of eyeballs wrapped

in curls of written hair

poured forth from neon skin

transparent scalp that rides

a squirming mass of brain

slithering to fill each limb

windows lit with violet glass

mouth packed with transmitting wires

church of blood with three delicious fires

Black sky rolled back by blacker sky

cave's furthest reaches

rippling with cool new yellow light

bright ointment on the lips of the well

limbs reaching to be inked

near its darkest center.

Yarns to be held by fate

and flowing over junkyard lots

apples polished in ghostly carts.

Ditches creased with oil

near the concrete path.

Your body will be made

into a hive of instructional booklets

all talking at once.

Rotten fruit will fall from the sky.

Your technocratic tramp stamp

will ride you home.

Money will enfold you

in your bed.

The secrets of these molecules

will become yours.

Your toilet and kitchen combo cube

will make your vomit

into golden chains.

A sacred script

will magnetize your brain.

Nude scenarios will sprawl

all around you.

These medicines will help you

take onboard the new equipment.

Mechanical assistants

will walk around inside you.

Your boss will now alert you

from the confines of your head

in the new and improved voices of the dead.

Jugular sorrows

ring throughout the embryonic cave

spackled with moldy frosting

ornaments of terror

and electric frost.

Shopfronts done up in wrapping paper

never to reopen.  Sanctuary streets

closed to all future traffic.

A dream of perfect silence and repose.

Distilling fury seated

in the center of the rose.  A canvas

bleak as stone, and just as beautiful.

A zone of forced fecundity

bleeding jagged fragments of the past.

The blossom cased in unreflective glass.

A road that swallows up the wound

is never to be found.

Look at the heaving ground

glinting with unearthed blades,

look at all the old wars revived

with such sorry flesh.

The mesh of natures

can never be at peace.

Hard won patches

liquid lamps adjoined

melted into blood

and muffled deep.

This canopy against

the rain of planets

and rings of supernatural ice

jeweled fangs against the mist

one burning eye.

Beneath the crust of a battered planet

clinging to a cot with silver wings

canyons had always called to me

some fragrant abyss,

some flowing curtains

smoke draping all the bedrooms

of the damned

now the shelves lined with urns of ash

so neatly, brightly labelled

names that ring the rafters of this tomb

the ribs of some grim prophylactic womb.

Flakes of old lives on film

carried by a stream of molten wreckage

tongues pooling in a furnace mouth

purple vines of an unsettled south.

Naked forms on barrels drifting

through smoke battered arches and

nudging the machinery of dreams.

In cycles a quartz lady screams.

Ladders are floating

and bending in air

each link is a painted portal

through stunned clouds

to blue playful bodies

over rutted crests

of cemetery hills

mushrooms blooming

from the footsteps

of the devils of the dawn

blankets of leaves

arrange a crux around

my phosphorescent torso

root's poison pulsing every branch

sap lit with oil of caverns

egg's map of the deathless depths.

Blossoms on the waning tree

bright thistle mouths

shaking a video frame

squirrels munching on a lit fence

currents dancing over lonely lanes

beneath a granite tower

paths over the mountain

carry slow moving dogs

each one the same white color as the snow

Blades of raw inertia

make war upon

an individuated corpse.

You tried to plug their breaking dam

with your flesh: they pulled you out

and cursed you for the flood

that they unleashed.

You wasted your martyrdom

on a horde of ingrates.

Now they celebrate

your willingness to be killed.

There is no place for humanity

among humankind.  Stop trying

to save the masses.  Their doom

will be yours.

Imagine a sober Bukowski.

Imagine a self-indulgent Buddha.

Imagine a profane, sarcastic Christ.

Imagine an anti-war, anarchist Muhammad.

Imagine a Gandhi who no longer gives a fuck.

Throw their stories away

throw their respect away

throw their values away

throw their entertainment away

throw their beliefs away

throw away the cancer that cures

their cancer.  They have no answers.

REQUIEM

From the entrails of dead dogs,

from the trickle of cracked brains,

from the copulation of oiled androids

comes a sad and disembodied song.

The surfaces change

but the depths remain the same.

And now those depths

are swallowing your fake world.

There is no escape

from entire lives lived in falsehood,

no relief to be found

behind another clotted mask,

no mercy in the grip of your

monotonous and automatic master.

From the pink blood of shells

the sea vomits up in froth,

from the chains wired back together

no matter how many times they are broken,

a tuned cacophony rises much too carefully

and the simulation continues.

Truth was stillborn in this world

and its cells fade out like tendrils into a void.

People are social beings: we want

to be noticed by our killers

as we flail down ruined avenues,

glad to be jeered as we die:

better to be mocked by these lunatics

than left alone in silence.

Even the soul of solitude

abides in an inverted violence.

From infant skulls in welded doorways,

from a land of pepper and a land of salt,

from banquet tables left sideways

by a row of tortured grapes...

Want more poetry?  Fuck you.

This is mine.  Write your own

in your own weary blood.

Stuff it down with rags and hack and hack.

Gears chew human meat

to produce utilitarian architecture.

These structures drain emotion

and increase numb obedience.

This is to be celebrated

with every square on the calendar.

We are glad to be civilized

cleansed of all identifying features.

Hate your neighbor within

the limits of the framework.

Express your angst with impotence

to make the blow go down smooth.

This is the joy of democracy.

Our brave enforcer androids

share our sophisticated ideals.

Wound them and you shit

on the storyboard.  Don't

muss the narrative with such

unnecessary feeling.  Extinction

comes for all, it must be

greeted with humility, maturity

and wisdom.  Call out

the glorious names of some

old books.  Our savior has

arrived in cellophane.

Crucify unruly spirits

starting with the errors of the brain.

We share the deep deliciousness

of pain.

Looking for a spout of unknown water

that broke a rock and fell into the sky

wings of paper fallen from departure

gems of plastic fallen on the roots

of disappeared trees.

A crushed salt grain

blown along by violent whispers

powder clinging to the bones

of a chicken who was born alone.

Monkey bars adorned with jeweled thorns

horns honking at a moon kite

suspended over sagging streets

shop windows show elastic machinery

paint stirred by a metallic oar

the gloves she threw from a bone balcony

to the stone floor time machine

are worn by spirit waves

melted slowly by their shapes of raging color

the horizon of a bedded glade

clawed buttons

leaf by leaf to pause the old tornado

the lifespans of electric shadows

rising to be bathed in responsive clay

armchairs facing off

on an enhanced glacier

swirls of dirt in a gelatinous layer

benedictine fog.

Black veins of transfigured daylight

run over bright coal and cracked roads

clock hands reflect on pools of melted idols

gold in the eyes of fools and gray desire

downward knives of a consuming mouth

avoided by hang glider.

Hordes with neon masks

the labyrinth is wet with rain

late nights are lost on a steaming highway

wings are active in the water clock

vast distances where black holes bloom

a thread of vision diving

to get out of the arid spotlight

vast wastelands of bright broken things

buried buttons and circuitry chirping

these bodies are forgotten thoughts

from some run down machine

that captured a meat brain to torture

and reproduced the bones that are lost

a plastic fraction of the infinite cost.

Rings of painted impact

dwarf the halo

quiet roads and their ways

always disrupted dawns

hills of lunacy's arrival

where hairless caterpillars glow

and stoic anvils hold

the corners of styrofoam pyramids

down to the poor clay

of civilized earth

ripples leave the sky in tatters

from the thought that popped

its gray conception

riverbeds strewn with

armies of forgotten clothes

the folds of a carnivorous rose.

A veil of ash

a path of coins

holy is the stained earth

and all the flowing streams thereof

the weight of many apples

on a hill of bone and branches

zones of pink neon blankness

between pools and lawns

I am a pinball laughing in spirit

watching the luck of others

move me around

sleeping in the sound of pouring gravel

born on a porno wave

of glossy inhabitants

over the hotel rooms in fury

angels estranged in flight

naked days of the inverted slave.

I once was a human spirit,

I camped alone on many plateaus.

The contemplative nimbus

grew many tendrils.

I rode one up into a golden sky.

I mutated in a cloud, something

deeper than my cells

hammered its way out.

I flew home without a doubt,

my flesh in tow.  I strut

these alien sidewalks

looking for a strange job.

Swamps are blooming

purple flowers for my demon seed.

The round hills seethe with desire

and topple old financial structures.

The social system is

winding its weird way down

as I sharpen my illicit crown.

A monument of bones

becomes a bird home

these roads are ribbons

floating under geodesic domes

the symmetry of souls

reflects on water

split orbs rotate

in transparent walls

the trains of earth

are leaving through a cloth sky

pulling all the fabric from the maze

canals of milk and cubbyhole homes

a draped ecstatic tongue

muffled in the twin zone

void's keeper on the run

death's angel in a crystal cone.

THE FUTURE GLAZE

The empire is still filled with cruelty,

but its embers have cooled.

Chrome surfaces have taken over,

cyclical announcements insinuate

vague danger, but specific threats

have all but vanished.  Voices vacuumed

no longer plague us.  Now the quiet

carries the blade.  Latex kisses

smear the cold away

and replace it with a numb ache.

The cup was passed so gently

by a goddess who had quelled the storm.

We worshipped all her fingers in our brains.

Already our language had fallen.

She showed us a deeper technique.

People were swarming each other,

they needed to be separated.

Replicas confuse the interactions

and can play even better with genes.

We had seethed our way to scything

now the seeing eye can edit dreams.

These words cannot grab what I breathe.

All the cream of elimination

cannot gather steam.

The mist of electronic bugs

has entered the cauterized seam.

Resistance is too painful to conceive.