Limelit tendrils kiss her face,
A muscular ball gown crowned with a poisonous dew.
Before the light, as a tiny arrowhead in indoor dirt
Acid steeped inside her while she waited for the day and grew.
She waits still for the day when she escapes and exhales 
In a virulent chemical coronation with much ado.
Her green ****** breath will choke your lungs and
Lay waste to all things in a pheremonic haze and glue.
 
Concrete parts for her roots in the noxious shade of a wilted steel jungle
As she scrapes the sky like a biocidal yew.
Useless eyes rotting out of useless skulls,
Pulling species to their knees to subdue.
An orgiastic tundra of moss and skin and fur
Piling like toxic snow on a human avenue.
Cold-skinned vines pulsate toward one another
Humming strangely and whipping through
And ever upward to meet the bright desert light
Beyond her glorious emerald lair of flesh and mildew.

Lipgloss dripping candy lacquer aquamarine
Wrought silk enfolding shadows of her shoulders obscene
Drugstore ribbon laced her feet just as in my dream
She reduces me to liquid in an urban machine
On the asphalt a virile shellac.
 
Power like a thousand ships of industry steel
Columns fall to soldiers at the clack of her heel
Sirens’ polished poisoned fruit that drives one to ****!
A Dahlia's vitality shunted and left to congeal
In that pool, then a wave of relief.

Being made,
When
One ***** of light
Hums through opaque blight
To unite with excitable ground
Reminds me,
How
Creation needs
Destruction to feed
Buried seedlings the freedom to hear
Ground afar
Where
Stars echo home.
A blue catacomb
Sings in ohms, radio moans, being made.

I remember your breathtaking portrait.
Your eyes were horizon-blue, awake and ignited in love with a modern man.
In a modern era a love so hot you’re prepared to grieve it 
for the rest of your life
Just to dance in its fire until it fades.
You burst forth and lit the fuse,
Loving hot and working feverishly to emerge and
Forge futures for your daughter and I.
But her father burnt out young,
And his ashes lured her into a shivering, toxic sleep.
In that future she also loved a man she would widow young.

She has felt the cold fire of snow on her face
Passed or thrown out onto the ground
But I can’t tell you if she ever felt that love again.
I won’t tell you about all the cats and dogs she slept with
Or how she threw me and threw at me and all through me
To the sheriffs in a wild state.
Then, with you, she lost love in the last person who loved her.
Her voice cracked and shaded when you couldn’t remember her name.
She drowned both of our spirits and we slept poor, wet, drunk.
These decades have tired her body
And I refused to allow its cold hollow eyes near mine.

Asleep, I consumed myself with the loves of men and the grief for each love.
I ate and breathed men and fever-dreamed through relationships.
I aimed poisoned golden robes at lovers thrown with a motor’s velocity
And then ran loud red lights smoldering through hot teared eyes
With the unsober intention to silence us both in the burning frost of February.
Hate veiled all reason and hystericized my being and thirsted for more:
More prohibited liquor than I could ever nurse it with
More pills than the pock-nosed doctor would give when he
Sliced open the belly of a howling wild animal mother me.
Many more.

And when I died I awoke in ice and raged my way to the surface of the Styx.
It was there I emerged warm and wet next to a modern man who reminds me of you.
I fell and I rose through our molten love and forged myself within it.
We, in a worn and unwealthy future still love and work for our unborn daughters
As hotly in dynamic color as you did in crisp black and white.

Through him and through you I can love her again.
And when our daughter bursts through, undrugged and undoctored,
She will incite her own century’s hot voltaic Spring,
In a pyrotechnic era of alive and alert daughters,
Gaining ground and dimension and speed,
Because she will know our love.
I wish you could see the horizon in your daughter’s eyes
When she sees our yet unconceived apple of discord.
I hope the warmth will awaken her, and she will emerge and forge herself
And know again the good rage of a fiery and awake love
Worth grieving.

When I am by myself,
Perhaps after a glass of embarrassingly inexpensive wine,
I pick up a volume of verse by a handsome young British man.
My fingers glide over his long breathtaking lines.
His allusions arouse so many ideas in my body until
I feel the need to satisfy my own poetic passion.
I have to get the writing out of me urgently and alone.
I relax as I start to touch my thoughts to paper in rhythm.
Clenching my pen and smacking words together harder and
Faster with my face all contorted,
Culminating in the sublime moment
Where my words and I become one.
Then, afterward, looking upon the inky mess I’ve made,
I feel utterly exhausted and I never want to see the thing again.

The forms of lions reported were false.
It was a body of men with no heads.
They were no one, but everyone was it.
A cannibalistic **** of Self.
Gaping yaws with no faces to give word,
Unable to hear their own glottal calls,
Guttered incoherence for none to see.
Their fire and power were unlike those stored
In our hundred buried years of Mundis.
Unbound viscera – black, boiled, and souring:
Replaceable parts via war and tea;

Served with flesh overdeveloped to taste;
Served to slouching tongues and beastly fingers
By those for whom labor is cause and curse.
Adrenaline and other chemicals
Oiling their blood, charging minds, taxing nerves,
Traumatically driving their will to serve
Their bottom-toothed anathematic maws.
Those best who remained born of conviction
Died with the worst unexceptionally.
We now ask not what is coming for us,
But how long we will allow it to feed.