An alabaster man
stands unmoving in the withered garden,
underneath the hidden stars
and the glow of a blurred half-moon

An age of bitter cold
has cracked His skin,
stolen His right hand

A memory frozen in palestone flesh
For hazel eyes,
and luminescence

If ever they venture close enough,
they hear His whisper,
like running water,
and slink back into the leafless trees,
He had nothing to say after all

Our new house is still static,
Fuzzy and loose change,
And videogames,
A still image of my daughter

Decorated in style,
With baby spiders,
Looking for the mother
that I crushed under my heel 
last night

Littering the world with my own bad habits
I chain smoke my way
somewhere quiet
with a buzz that isn't nearly strong enough

What I want is bioluminescent,
floaty drunk
and messed up 
in some kind of way
A head kicked in 
and police reports
A private room,

Or, I don't know, something

A neon lit room
Rain on the window panes
On a floor high enough
That if you jumped out
Your thoughts would spill
Harmlessly acrosst the street

Cigarette smoke
A reading red chair
In low light
Empty beer bottles 
More than I thought
Less than I thought of you

****** up
Buzzing drunk
An old Kung Fu movie
On a CRT television
A.V. cables like vines 
Over everything

What's the point 
In non narcotics?
Or reality TV?
And **** parades
And double **** shopping centers
I spin all my clothes
From spider web

And triple **** parades, 
Like really

See the boy walk in orange dunes
Alabaster pillars rising to the red stars
His grey eyes see everything 
in shades of winter
and turn rain to hail

Carcosa lies ever to the west
as far as the boy walks the city floats equal
He prays, to the King in Yellow
"Father, let me home"

The desert sands shift
and neon-lit beetles guide his way to the altar
Obsidian statues of primordial Old Ones 
raise their too long arms to the night sky
lit by five red moons

A whisper to the boy from the Yellow King
sends arctic winds through his small frame
his mop of black hair stands straight up
A word, whispered from Father to Son
From the King in Yellow to the Lost Prince,
"Ish"
Ish, Prince of Carcosa,
gifted with his name,
opens his red cat-eye,
the third
and the Obsidian statues crumble
and the desert sands swirl
and the neon-beetles fall dead
and Ish grins