Jezebel's been skeletonizing True Crime--
plethoric to the degree of Richard Ramirez'
breath, a fellow halitosis sufferer.
especially noting the forensics of love, as if she
could inspire such extremes.
a crone's rotative head, turning the screws of
invisibility--hypervigilant of a kind of danger that
won't even consider her.
there's a poet Jezebel reads in that manner--a darkly
handsome force at her throat, willing to lay it all down.
poems like a shadow's outer space--right there, yet
coming after her.
Jezebel's delusiveness  hurls moondust at this poet's
absence--generous enough to have pleasured her.
as since her deterioration expects the worst, so the poet
writes her off as dead--which she literalizes, poor thing.

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.

medieval paintings feel scrutinized by a
torturer--an upside down cross that lowers
into an oubliette.
the: "forgotten"--where a prisoner is thrown,
from a trap door that opens to a bottle-shape
pit.
with only enough room to stand, according to
what bones the fall selectively broke--as if
retorts to what end.
sewage often working its way in, putrid fumes
riding the back of chills & out with *****.
the hysterical prickles of whiskers, shooting
a toothiness unfit for a mouth--head above water.
slicked back fur pulling along a skin tail--rats
marking a precise claustrophobia.
excellent for nervous eating in a screaming darkness.
where regions of the prisoner do not report back,
as wind between mountains of night seeing itself off.
feces & ***** raining down from jesting guards--
lowering his head to briefly acknowledge the
corpse he's standing on.
while trap door phosphenes begin to open for the:
"forgotten".

there's a crow i keep around,

that will never forget my face.

it watches all forms of life play dead,

nothing gets passed it--so it can not

play dead.

nor can it play alive, it doesn't exist in

any sense--yet it will never forget my face,

because it will never have to remember it.

i say crow, as i say pet--where associative images

come to mind, yours or mine?

you have words for almost everything--even me,

you call me: nothing, ness as of...there isn't

even space.

Franz Xaver Messerschmidt sculpted his face
sixty times--an arcanum of flesh's malleable
appeals to a skull.
his: "Character Heads" yanked out in front of
a mirror's propriety, a natural madman
exceeding a chimp's ****** expressions.
the inverse catatonia of a pickled alien--
where colors don't clash.
Franz believed he was hunted by the:
Spirit of Proportion--due to his mastery of
sculpture, its punishable likenesses.
whose features' puff-**** brands ether with
magick, the idolatrized signal of rebellion.
his sixty: "Character Heads" were meant to ward off
this equalizer of art--sort of like how Vlad the Impaler
stuck countless decapitated heads on pikes, outside
his castle walls, to unnerve enemies.

twenty four caprices of lording fire--
a violin grabbing the horsehair of a bow.
brutal angulations, the muteness of
hollowed out release--keen to its own ear.
then multiplying fingers plucking at strings, as
if deviously imposing a riddle.
the karma sutra of incubi & succubi.
the idle thoughts of their prince, supping at
a decomposed apple--its tiny anuses sliding
out seeds.
while he looks up in ejaculatory boredom--
unable to live it way down.

a curved stony enclosure whose seawall gives
way to hulking cliffs--with chiseled ramparts
akin to bottom cuspids.
standing before foldable reflections--aside from
the accelerating interpolation of sea-clouds, prone
to negatives.
the guiding intelligence of a flood cupped by an
isle that is unmet with a return.
its interior of entryways are desolate modulators
of tides.
as the two main entrances to the isle set stone apart,
the first as ruggedly cut indicators--the second as
altar-immaculatus blocks.
its baselevel of algae--fed by browning runoffs of rain,
along cracks filled with ivy.
leading into cypress trees expecting late visitors, with
an adamance that gives an odd calm to the out-of-place.
though they unnaturally crowd & surpass their enclosure,
with a tingle of wildflowers anticipating them.
making a point of something, already at its most advanced
stage--withholding a shade solid enough not to have been
under a burning phos.
come the skewed vision of a boat, progressing in the way
of water.
the sea peering at the back of the void's head, as it's shone
upon.
the forward tilt of a boatman's oared tension--stiffly even
keel, with enough momentum to float to the isle.
the boat becomes sensationless...the figure in the white
shroud knows nothing else but what is about to transpire.      
as if Lazarus dazedly brought to his feet, remaining there
for all the world.
the only thing that the cypress trees can see, as take into
their shade the coffin.