My apparition is now animated
Born from a dream dimly projected for a time
It lies here
On this bed
Not sleeping I ask
What altar is this?
Less glorious than marble and fire I know
Yet something dissipates here
The hands of pale lights reach beyond the veil of the window blinds
And guild the empty spaces above my fretting body
Almost caressing the only consequence to this
Yet I abandon paper devices for my petitions
They break like glass as they pour from my mouth
Ascending, they shimmer in the urban eclipse taking the stead of starlight
From it's heart a name has fallen
Speak it for me oh eyes
For we say
She is called Night

I am dying stars
I am locked doors
I am smoke
I am steel
My eyes burn
I learned to make gold in your shadows
Now I am priceless
I am industry
And I am angry
I will rise on clockwork flight
There are no wings to melt on me

Over sleep
Undercook
Picking Scabs
Laying myself out for the day
Pulling my feet down to the carpet

A life in broken glass,
A reflection-
One million pieces,
Impossible to see myself rightly,
Tell me who I am,
Which of my pictures fit together,
This curse-
     this curse
This curse of suburbia,
The unperceived ritual,
Take
Regurgitate
Build
Charge the culture gods,
Update the computer shrines,
Dam them all,
They replaced the spiritual encounter:
Our birthright,
Traded for ***** water,
Our entire lives,
Washing nothing away,
This murky bath is our judge,
Confronting our condition

If I could reach into Apollo's cloak,
I would pull down the stars and put them in my eyes,
Drowning myself in pedals of flowers,
Give me stimulation,
A temporary satisfaction,
But dislocated from the natural idea of rest,
Wilting away from their stem,
Ready to die

I can see
Pixels wash away
Watercolor dreams

I can see
Generations
History
Recede by technicolor tides
Into a grey scale sea

Regardless of origin
This cycle resonates too much for

Me

Bad men are children who never grow up

Drown me with flowers though,
Drops jump,
Falling all over the pedals,
They are lost things,
And screens as starlight pulls these like paintbrushes,
Fingers of bristles leaving traces of them,
Encircling a rusty city with dew,
Putting out fires in some places,
Watering others,
For the smell of rain is swallowed up by memories,
Then spat out by storms,
Let us have a moment of silence for the gardens in them,
They wither away like pictures in shoe boxes,
Collecting dust,
Then thrown into fire,
This is my witness-
I am a desperate man in these modern landscapes