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

Darkling, folded in absentia,
Eye-wandering through incorporeal portals–

Now a smile,
heretical and broad
as her the sun’s lonely gates.

hands seek the
                           blue ribbon--
the flutterer

                                            in butterfly

                                   scars.
catch it.

                      please. This too cannot

    go to god.

                                      The heavens

                     are glutted with
                              joy.

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

what lies moony in the
river ****,
scalded and
heavy-thumbed?

sit darling
      do sit

this is no new crime

yes this has been done before many times

           its all very regular I assure you
the procedures all the rage

                                                     its easy
                                                          really­
all you need is a little blade

maybe a sharp spoon


and perhaps a clear glass jar;
                 yes, a Mason jar, that'd be quite appropriate.

and you simply scoop


and you don't stop scooping -- stop squirming, darling, this is important--

until you are sure,
you are sure its quite well and gone.



and you place it all in the little jar and seal it up,
all nice and tight--

so nothing can get out, you understand.

and then you're all finished-- don't cry, darling,
its finished, see?

There's nothing there now.


Don't you feel so much
lighter?


                    If only I knew what it felt like
                                      it must be
                                     exquisite.


Isn't it exquisite, darling?

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.

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

scentless, ascetic,
nearly seamless
with the iron clouds

the light etches
the retinal disk,

plastered in
blue--
green--
red--
bands,
super-positioned
in the mildewed afterglow of
an exigent god--

garrulous,

too upright for death.

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.

Ale-fiend of a sky-
neatly blotted,
looking down
with sour
red
I

red kisses
dart persecuted and carnal
past the
avenue despots;

This night, at least,
is saved

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.