Each crease in flesh
speaks with the tongue
of an ancient shaman.

Crystalline vision
born of spirit,
warm mescaline and
a fiery torch.

The serpent rises
and in its wake
consumes my youth.
I have left behind
all of my blood
but the bravest.

The nail that doesn’t
want to be struck,
folds at the impact
then is straightened
and hit again,
but it twists and bends
into its own shape;
pounded and pressed
deep into the plank.

While you are sleeping
     they are sharpening the guillotine
Loading their guns
Sheathing knives at their thighs

Tip toeing while you snore
To tie the noose
And expose the poison
Planting mines where your feet will step

During your dream state
They are writing the nightmares

You have no idea
          what awaits.

The scant, gray room
Where you forced me to live
Me like a fox
Silken, amber fur
With hungry teeth

I imagined escaping you
That cool, spring morning
In our Swiss train station
Your heels knocking in echo
And I afraid of the machinery

You asked, “Why do we do
The things we do?”
And I kissed your nose
Like tasting a hen

I gave my ticket to a boy
And he boarded without bags
My gloves felt too tight
Black, like your hair
And smelling of blood

Metallic ocean waves
will not overwhelm me in
this prevailing moment,

nor shaven-headed dude
with raven hound
gallivanting

on verdure plaza,
eagerly visualizing
**** on the verge,

under this devil sun.
Vociferous men
devoid of socks

converse about
investments in
rental living quarters

while evading a glance
at my overly-long
vert straw

properly delivering
my shivery
iced beverage.