banjo strings frayed by broken fingernails fistful of downers to sleep this night away i open my eyelids out of dream, singing ladies' eyes downcast thru fear & tobacco smoke wake up, roll joint, get this day started.
bones do what they want my spine is skeletal quetzalcoatl
as the one dash zero pattern commences agile fingers shoot from the surface now the new **** logic locks onto hidden nutrients
the rising curtain body of the dull hour arms hanging about the roots and the rocks on the electric river
they line up and burst in sugarfruit unison returning to exile with those who had weathered exile with them before
we initiate the dream of a heartless choir everything greased and ready to go nothing crawls nor begs mercy from god and we erected the temple of the wasps
Three blind babies in the caterpillar nest The songs turn their limbs Torrents of Mandarin wash over the silk Watercolor cilia crawl toward the tomb corners
Awake at the Kremlin with fluoride eyes built to take in the exotic pour the ***** and the women and masterpieces launch into the frozen countrysides
Lapping of the close water moon shrouded in a prismaic screen the shadow of salt beside the beast of south China sea
Amnesia spreads dripping thrands answering only to the ocean the language of caterpillar shout from our arranged marriage
your electronic memory of Oscar Wilde collapses just then the sun the future like a gun afloat in cream bang film skin piano
your memory hangs in my broken window like a saxaphone
forty somethings smoke and flirt on a cruise ship floating toward a blissful retreat where time has lost command and the radio has blown out the morals of the age
In gentle cursive the song written on the white arched neck of the artificial swan
The ankle bells give you away the sweet echo of your bare feet on the cobblestones the clever fountains bauble as always while they are still good keepers of night time
Staring with the spider into semantic oubliettes The cats have all gone mad The hounds growl at shadows The guards in the tower hone their bayonets The night is red The shroud of crow follow my car past sleeping windows then lift like one legendary rook The snow falls in my headlamps and my mind is a cemetery
I am through the house silently every mortal battery on quiet compliments Entering other rooms when I remove or use objects I am a ghost meddling The furnace kills out I look out windows that will outlive our gory dance
Over which radio cannot cross She stands on a school desk and declares Dada Each color bled from my mouth and made my gene code racist and illiterate Then We broke a Black Glacier and a swollen son melted our gallant entropy
's favorite meal is not children as you may expect it is old people, the elderly near death they taste better to him he fantasizes their whole lives with every bite
whose heart like bottles or ransom clinks against itself eating the useless parts of its own stomach rotors of bone hum about revenge the earth clones pale enigmatic cyanide
my spawn sweat bourbon and bleed sweet milk I'm the Tower Look Look let us hold eachother here until the dark blossoms
into an invisible canine snarl crushed by feathers at a tomb-encrusted countryside wax swans bleed from
their eyes and bulls inside run in circles around ancient ice prisons
Look a clock century weary mariners gape in disbelief at a yawning dawn of cadmium on the tongue of a bristling free roaming continent of gothic salt
I form and practice the smallest hidden dramatic gestures from within the simple mouths of spiders There the secrets are in quiet handprints Fortunes are passed from the ceilings The lights are wise and silent as the gaze of Chinese tortoise