a shadow marionette of an

anthropoid, is controlled by superstrings.

it is bound to the outermost groove

of a blackhole, whose last audible

recording sounds from it.

exclusively sent down to the surface

of deep sea oceans across the earth.

occasionally overawed fisherman will

see the performance of its danse macabre

when dawn's most brilliant.

becoming incontinent when hearing the

extinction of sound via song.

letter block houses form a word--

every time one of its occupants guess the

word death is thinking of.

absurd as in their manner to define--

these naked giants that rise with the salt of

the earth & fall with the rain.

unable to miss one another thru tinsy niceties

& fashionable rags.

hide becomes the operative word, like: applause

to a live audience.

spot-check survival prods at their peace--as auric

toxins coarse & compile like bowel movements.

as if they're put to: The Question by Grand Inquisitors...

tortured until they confess: I'm fulfilled.

an archway with ivy bangs, glass cuts

another archway with ivy bangs.

dangling from the foreheads of a gothic

tunnel.

magnifying feet that have masticated

undergrowth & path.

the metamorphose of a human animal,

whose keenness still rings in the ears--

while ****** into the pressure of the tunnel.

a soundproof & sound-enhancing paradox,

that spacewalks limbs.

coupled with the aerodynamic windbreaks of

cars, riding the back of its modest overpass.

then the emergence to a connective forest

path--as if cleansed before a consequent

afterworld.

a spider's minced eyes--

studded gemstones

whose beaty twinkles

reflect suspension.

immaculately pinned to

the molding that draws

down the line of a corner.

in a room where two walls

meet--the imperceptible

musicality of its web, playing

a number to be consumed.

Botero's ballooning

figurations parade

into Giacometti's studio.

greeted by emaciations

that seem cast in disheveled

breadlines.

as with a vomitus

start from bed--

the melted voices of

the mind moonlighting

the wee hour of a body.

sectioned off from what

retired it--so countercurrents

of alarm may impress

something that has happened.

though not yet.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.