Cloudless confusion blows through the dead mind's sky
All eyes envying the ever nearing end of time.
This constantly reccuring thread.
This secret sentence meant to reinvent this magic.
It is a morbid mirage.
Murdered marriage
A massacre, unmentionable.  
Mesmerizing sobriety,
Majestically marauding science.  
Mindless moon born madness.
Inner sinner-inner sanctum.
Sheltering some malevolent Mysterium.
This thoughtless thirst for sanctity.
The shapeless shadow wisps which whisper.
Shock of spewing blood against a backdrop of white.
A keenly edged knife ******* grins into milky skin stretched tight.
The shifty sorrow of quick fading light
Deep down dig of fright
Straining: fighting with the last vestiges vanquished
The swallow of sentience, this last candle scarcely alight.
Burial romance.
This slow turned page.
Slow revelation of cumulative age.
Empty vessel volition withering onstage.
Don't weep this ****** burned
This solace we've earned
Good sense long past spurned.
Sadistic disaster our honey and sugar.
Outlined by the end
The smile of evil men.
Sad string stung, star struck spirit spun.
The voice of Us long undone.
Screaming chorus Kingdom come.
Seance chorus all wanting some.
This cracked Kingdom collapses
Each moment which passes
One last squandered synapse and then all falls quiet... at long last.
My lunar goddess
Lunatic
******
Murderess that got it

I met a man today
His eyes were unfair
For they out-shined whatever other details I might have remembered,
Except that beard
Which clung to his face
As if on that wonderless combination of complexity and simplicity it were safe

There was another
At a bus stop
Where I asked everyone for cigarettes for the long walk home
His face was clustered and shaped like a squirrels
He seemed to peek from beneath his baseballs cap
To see if it were safe to dissolve into society

We are children naked in the wild,
overcome and grossly under equipped
to comprehend the hard edges of the world we are faced with.
We are sightless worms:
wallowing, toiling and never knowing to what end.

So give form to this tepid dark.
Vibrate, illuminate,
entangle your consciousness so hopelessly with the void
that it is made a part of you
and you are made a part of it.

Warm this empty frigid space with soul fire.
Burn each other alive with love.
Cast your light into every dark corner of the chaos
and bring each other back to revitalize and rejoice in the flame.
Consume the cold black nothing
and weave every breathe into something....
anything.

I quiver and die smiling beneath the stroke of your pen,
a smearing of paint,
your soft dance,
the swell of your voice.
Some tear in your eye.

When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone,
into bleached canvas or lumped clay...
into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages,
we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit
calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us.

Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings.
Clouds beg us for open air.
Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths.
Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes.
Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives.

These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art"
and we hold them high
above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter
that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry.
These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter.
These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality.

The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web.
For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.