this mad gristle flays itself
against the rigid
pyres of the stars;
it is lean, supple,
newmouthed and
hardly born;

It has trembled in the
arms of a woman,

and eaten of the fetal
apple--

stringent, stretched sticky
between the fingers
like a lung.

This the morning of demise
for the longhearted her.
She eats into herself you see;
when there's nothing left to
eat

a face walks the distance
a stye in the blackness
it cries pale tears
as the walls are raised above it
and there is nothing,

nothing at all
it can say

for there is nothing to
say
nothing at all

and beneath the sand
trembling armies crouch
around the body
of a young girl

younger
and more beautiful
than anything anyone has seen

more beautiful still than
the black blades of flowers
than the clean ribs of Heaven
than the calligraphy of
soiled limbs

and nobody
has anything
to say.

red kisses
dart persecuted and carnal
past the
avenue despots;

This night, at least,
is saved

I am slipped in the demon end
of god's wiry hair,


pulled and plucked at;
made a nuisance of,
made a thorn in the
crystal eye of this



new Allmighty

this the


clack
clack
clack


of ductile
orange flesh
filling motel rooms
hinting at all the



lovely beasts
convulsing in the wretch
of telecomputers



and marmalade.

the blooming head of
purple smog reaches its feathered petals
across the bowl--

scentless, ascetic,
nearly seamless
with the iron clouds