I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

The sight of the moon
enlightens my dark feelings
light on aching self.



Shell ✨🐚

sunrise on the river
a million stars
2 fishing poles
and my brother

What are these bones, muscle?
this hairy torso alive with goose bumps
an animal grasp, shattering bone
ripping marionette's sinew and members
smelling of drying blood in day's follow
before diving deep into cave's bowls
there subsiding evening's howling
with monstrous heart, like forest embers,
          smoldering

worries crease and fold over shoulder's look
stone voices echo above, searching
smoke filled eyes blind and mined of light
guttural rumbling beneath their venomous anger
sustained by years of false demagogues
to scratch and pick among the ruined crops
violent brawls over morsels of industrial slop
driven to wield a popular myth of terror
         plots within plots

Nature revolts with amoebic precision
a cubic meter of water's hammer ******
a hurricane of wind, fury and destruction
preceding the padded footfalls of death's
dank breath and suffocating grip
this creature's birth and veracity
against a sea of troubled illusions
will tear realities fabric of flesh
         as pole from pole

-cec

~
I work in the clouds
Building a world out of hype
I could be a beekeeper
A prison guard
Reverse pop idol
Extinguishers, all

Hackers ferry contemporaries
Around the diseased city
Merchants of transference
Polymorphing
Paths and angles
Pieces of eight

They could be brutal war fantasies
White noise translations of the snow
Cathedral nights in the deli
Ghost recordings from an opera house
Each with its own price tag

All the pretty girls
Thick with mascara
Go to plasticity
Drink chloroform
100 aspects of subterranea
So long as they come home
With a credit problem

Money devotion
It's what transferred us
Into numbered silhouettes
Slavishly pouring our blood into the sea
~

tonight the sky.

dark palette.

the stars are projectors.
the paintings of them are in
perpetual motion,
carry the zero.

conflicted still life.
of spathodea.
of pomegranate.
of her own folded-up *****.

it's all in how you interpret
the brushwork.
girls can tell.

a reassuringly dull sunday
turns to intrigue.
the busy girl buys beauty.

people are places and things.
lost affections in a room
in need of images
or at least explanations.

she looks for it.
she listens for them.

the sound of existing.
the sound of a quiet room.
a rainstorm or possibly the sound
of someone taking a shower.

blind little rain.

autosleeper lowers her head.
the economy of sleep patterns.
and little else celsius.

tonight the sky.

tomorrow a place where
one can ruin oneself,
go mad, or commit a crime
with paint.