bought this rose stuttering

new bloods with an off color

scream.

from a flower peddler.

tore off its upstanding head--

and rifled it at the heels of a

bedeviled nyc woman.

as the crystalline cogs of December

turned.

frosty verbiage.

silvery claw marks

on a sixth-plate daguerreotype,

in a foresting chamber study.

a grandfather clock holding its

hands up to its pendulating face--

after an oil lamp is trimmed.

as that daguerreotype's, daguerreotype  

is torn to the size of letters, cannibalized

by The Word/the word/words...

made fleshless, a handwriting

analysis

examined by tactically glowing

horns.

stained a dark

purple, the parch of a

cast out hole--plastered

with scales.

a serpent stiff as a staff,

lither than the cookery of

of mid made noon, made

desert.

got drunk on poison spit.

wintered ethers that clapped

warmth out of its trance.

gliding down & up mountains,

while memorizing skies--dumb

to total blankness.

dark on course with purple,

purple on course with dark.

by default, there is no clever

line for a serpent.

where it is impelled to inhabit it

again.

as a shed skin.

& ex-pire.

though it does.

gristle's input--

a tray of glass tupperware.

forgotten leftovers,

on a park table.

animal jello.

a bipedal strikeforce

of wolfen albinism--

on a runner's high.

slathering that gristle

over its body.

during a flashflood of

incremental moons.

picking out whiskers

from the **** end of

witchy chins.

a metropolis' occulted pedestrians--

produce photographic negatives,

between their: A to B.

densified luminaries aping the nosiness

of the smallest village, with supposed

anonymity.

from oversaturated death stares, to the

preternatural speed reads of body language.

where that other is still a dwarf of distance.

as all units of time are

being poured into the perfect

round of a black hole, relieved

of their span of standing.

a heart turns over in its deepest

sleep--knowing it has been

misunderstood at the most pivotal

moment.

where lifetimes met to be extinguished

by a love too glorious to withstand.

an entourage of black & white monsters
rabidly collapse--on a mall's glassy floor.
itching away at pixelation, retaining the
right to crudity.
the mall's scent marketing spreads its
delicious mist around yellow hazard signs,
methodically placed around hinterland's
embattled fringe.
the horror vacui of a mall, full stop.
the Art Brut of the disciple that got away,
having escaped from a ****'s forth crow, or
Judas' Romanesque royalties.
the unnoticed figure that whistles apart the
mall's glass ceiling, rubs his eyes to reveal
St. John of Patmos ******* out the soupy eyes
of lambs.
shaking free an extra large fountain soda from
Christ's right hand--dissolved by flavor.
denominational puddles rising from the mall's
glassy floor, as Christ hacks up demonic roars
as he's assailed by children.
whose parents wander off to ***** a voluptuousness
that sheds their hands, all over the place.
a pendulously oversexed wash of half-baked
******, as if a feather could be roused from an
indeterminate wing.
the adjourned high courts of dream.

suffused movie screens

separating silver from

shadows.

simultaneous sequences

quivering free--glinting

proterozoic slime, competing

takes at first light.

never seen the same way

again by its hovering void.

itself being vacuumed into

a featureless film reel.

Post meridem traffic, tightened

congestion--breaks whined like

dogs sounding high pitch

frequencies.

A screen protector discarded on

tousled grass--unevaporated dew

droplets set as Wallpaper.

A fitting tension, sort of like

car pooling.

coughing fits of dust are kicked up

by a giant--wearing great sunken cities

at the swells of his bare feet.

oceanic puddles splashing over every stride.

he reaches down to secure Noah's Arc

between his right thumb & pointer finger, as

if it came out of a ******* Jack box.

all the couplings of his animalia reinforcing

his totemic Tower of Babel.

with ant colonies of men working on molten

scaffolds of gold.

the building blocks of his washover being--

cast him out, of where?

with ineffable dramaturgies.

whose performances were witnessed by him

in such a way--that he became an unseeable

morsel placed in his own mouth.

with the taste of no kind of food, to consume

the height he was no longer aware of.

there's no shramming spleen to rail

against, come the winter solstice.

hotbeds of vampires stretch out to

make snow angels.

light deprivation projects its own creature

features.

received with the most lone & enthusiastic

review.

the doubleback of dark pressed against windows--

not far to meet any emergence from sleep.

uncut prolongations, tar-skipping streets throwing

off characterizations of litter.

unnerving the foot traffic of extras

spreading cabin fever.

the directorial debut of the 21st.

the ground/sidewalks/streets

are usually checkered fluctuations

that accelerate into vortical pits.

then are spit out.

as if not being where one is--

consequentially proceeding toward:

having not been.

yet, as it seems currently...the weight

of the entire world settles, & an

existential foothold shoots blocked

information thru the crown.

as faces barge

in on their cellophane

wrapping...

a phenomenal candle,

an eastward giant melts

them slower  than WaX.

nothwithstanding.

crowing batches of light

on unfamiliar walls.

etch a sketch digeridoo--

a window's belly button blown

out.

umbilical skyviews of an

embroidered

desert scarf--transfusing its frozen

blood bank.

there's still a cloud with a serpent's

belly--shining down & covering up.

with a handheld mirror over bitter

water--that at first glance preserves

the baby fat of greenery.

blackbird murmuration peppers that

salt...to float as hover, pejoratives

of flying.

their telepathy mutes static barriers,

with volume left on

to the maximum dictates of wingless

flight--which  pass over pattern.

to beat that bitter water over their

backs, between their wings.

it's when water drinks--it's when

Her Voice hurls forward the arrestive

sounds of a beak drinking murmuration.

a top hat in an empty freezer.

thumb size magnets of vintage Xmas

lights, shifting around like a ouija board.

one dimensional warp sleights of color,

motioning.

placing blind eyes to motion without

color, lit irrespectively by contrast--

or current.

battering ram frost, whose heavy

breathing leaves the freezer door open.

it may be remiss to state

time to plaid blue sheets

of sky.

especially when unasked.

while leaves hovel over

patchwork.

an albino monkey

clanging cymbals--

dies a Duracell death.

with two cymbals

resting in a discus prayer.

repetitional rays of sound

creating an island of toys

on a first born sun.

Bugsy Siegel walked

unto Vegas' desert and

saw: "Twenty dwarves

doing handstands on the

carpet."

then scratched his *****--

knowing he could rig dust

before it comes back to itself.

suckers aren't docile, they

only if only think big.

pituitary phenom, muppet with unshelled

eggs for eyes.

whose dilation's the yoke of a molding cellar

wall, that has never been looked on.

a dry grey mane that wigs his skull like a

cobwebbed broom in overcast.

his slanting squat protracts & threatens to

dislodge his elongated bones.

each howling the winds of his caution--

caved in his overeager mouth.

a knuckled-up grip obscures the torso

of his son.

which by proportion notes the size of his

hands, akin to manhandling a loaf of bread.

though bread plays its part in parable, as so

its body bleeds.

Saturn devouring his Son, his head & right

arm depict the clean cut of a single bite, or

a meticulous succession.

the upper body is a thick outline of blood that

refuses to run--as the left arm of Saturn's Son seems

to gag him in protest.

his buttocks stream down his dangling legs--a

cosmic voodoo doll with its pins popped out.

the hermitage of a defeathered

bird--showcases air.

in that, that bird

has never been spotted before.

which is to say--a glimpse of a

feather makes birds out of air.

as air out of air.

one can't be sure how much
transfigurement occurs during sleep.
how often a straight line fudges a crooked
line, so: a/b/c can sequentially light up.
three yesterdays ago today--a legless
Daddy-long-legs was pulled across the
floorboards of my head.
in response to the banging vacuum of
wakefulness.
as a bedroom window isolates what will
be uniformities of rain--shower (cut!),
shower (cut!), shower (cut!)...with a finale
of steadiness?

an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...

post-haste of rooms--full of

spot checked decor.

adjusted by the dust of walked

bodies.

crawling with broken entries--that

sign on anonymities of removal without

their knowledge.

eviction notice: "hypocrite lecteur--mon

semblabe,--mon fre're!"

maximum capacities of flies bouncing off

walls, centipedes fencing around spiders

on the floor.

as anatomically correct as the body of a

dreamer beyond their bed--revolted by the

exteriority, insecure lordship.

The dead of winter walks into the

northern Atlantic, down a sandy

staircase.

So its greatest depth can finally swallow.

It's when a certain procession of waves

come in with nightfall, melding like a

loss of consciousness.

The shore's triangulated sickness witness

to two fluidities, whose synchrony

nightfall denies as it happens.

Just as certain sleepers along the

northern Atlantic have this sensation

creep over them.