you work perfect farce like
your cards light in my hand singing
a jingle to slavery

you light a bourbon course
across artillery and *****
sworn to war

locust songs twist silver slivers
on the mattress on
the floor in the
fight to the death winding against
wet pink feathers

I turn my imaginary arm back
from cartoon space and We're
****** since arms are extinct.

My life a cloud of
Blood and pity

All the most beautiful
Words I will say to
Myself in quiet rooms

But to you
Nothing but the
Awkward garbage
My mouth finds

I stretch my mortal
Membrane into time
I have not bought

One lash stomps
A false move and
Harvests a mania

Broken falls ****
That let me fall I
Do well from below

She's not like him, She likes to say
When the phone rings arises a crises
her speech is saturated like grease
behind her eyes

She lives in a figurative cube of lard
A clear turmoil tunnel channeled like
a river of boiling fat filled with shards
of shining glass shattering her flaccid
memory lacerates each emotion or
turn into adipose gluttony

I wear my heart on her terry cloth robe
the brain she was born with is the
***** on her clothes

Your children twist
their legs in the fields
during
the play murdering
gather their
arms to decide
how to assemble
your hips
when onlookers
burned into paved
staircases
dream of how
tumbling phantoms
destroy countrysides
and what wreck
is the womb

The thousandth
****** beneath
Lake Baikal of
The Trident
The gods' mouthful
bristling iron
is spat ashore
Leviathan's bones
glint and crackle
Man is one celled
Apocalypse
yet to divide
His name in Manganese
splinters under the paths
of the mastodon

A mad stone mask waits
in memorized frost on the
blood heavy curtains of ****

Backstage are the petrified
coronas of silver babies whose
ghostpaper hands whisper
wreaths of slavery

O. Pool raw island or line vineyards
action stripping the shifts in throat lobes

co operative fraction guillotine manual or
glandular matchstick subtracting certain

matching breeds already beneath accidental
mathematics in estrus clothed by fractions

                                        II

Aural syringe laughing lineage captured
glass cultures Where I feel revered by newborn

lands of guilded dementia children from vapor
quartering off portions of soft cornered rockets

off soft dabs of round cornered minaret orders
I fire the buoyant mind with fractioned black butter

                                       III

The hum of fans
the gunboats dealing broadsides
raw meat and bound feet
moon is withered grape
flys gnaw thru our cellophane
intent to devour our brain
The mythical hiss of salted throats
dissolving like fermented aphids
milk amidst the purr of confused
****** onlookers

The Princess of our burlesque
appears with her sun red triplets
Three clairvoyants asleep in their
eggshell bed each with three eyes
one just within the foreheads

I have been destroyed and reborn
The Religions you have offered me
Have failed every time.

ATHEIST.

One particle has betrayed your wit
you are speeding into a single cell

Right below your memory is hollow
your past implodes despite your will

The King of Chalk dropped
His speech in a trail of ants
outside Juarez

This is the day to chase the kite
that smashed into a junkyard and got shot
knocked up and burned in her bed

I chased that red vulture onto hunting grounds
Crossed by jazz wires where oil soaked colossi
stood on each side of the dripping black strip

Bomb her mouth
morning never comes
for *** enhanced fluoride

Each cell winced a dream
the river's mouth at your back
the particle that was mine was turned

In time and produced your crying children
reverberating and bleeding in dark bars
time clocks gouged your heart

You faced Death
That's enough.

Who can live in this quiet
as dog's songs splinter
carmine pressure

Equatorial walls
capture half howls
through gristle lenses

One drop of ash
scars the maps
At last her eye

is the string torn
from the hem of the ****

To cold peace points an inner carbon
An elegiac turn
A firesharp hollow
A plunging baritone ribbon

The horse is wood it does not
eat it burns on a flake of Singapore
On plaster fingers
Abracadabra's
Black Dracula

I am Ether
and it's hard luck these days
with nobody making you famous

There is a lead cloud pregnant
with memories worse than burns
raining like errant artillery

I have to bite with my best teeth
to rewind pleasure and fossilize
painful reputations

You put murderers tattoos on my
social membrane by a diseased loop
Obviously I run like a rabbit and

backflip and rip in half the sky
Anonymity boils
Jarry shoots his ephemeral pistol

outside the theatre at fictional
Paris of your half dream
these ghosts circle your nerves

bleeding christmas sugar
gasping kerosene charisma
atop the peak of repute

One backward leaf of
paper to assault my shade of
fey staircase

ink inside a lock of
hare in a black backward box
key for my clock

smoke without a whip's
narrow ghost backward of
a coal haunt

clever stairway it's own
footprint for hare escapes
my backward watch

disappear with her
and the bar room growls
while the wistful claws
force out into their homes
beneath the swelling sea
from the ruin
of my memory
We walk into Purgatory
the way two children dance to the fair
For minutes
We're there
innocence blesses the sky
our hearts made of white
Light

Passage of day over the title on
a brittle page
Someone tore up a
greatest hits of Zen earlier
that year

Your spine bolts after
a windborne ticket
Where else could you be
Not the desert of whisky but of
whisky's prehistory

Distilling the *** act from a codex
Amnesia pressed  like  specimen
between yourself and your killers
glance over a name in stone
The page a sheet of light

Out hot executioners
ribbons in our wake
sensibility thru the vents
A paper doll cuts the clouds

Patience
She says
Allow her one paramount chance
to steal your heart for this dance

can't talk like a poet got
a foul mouth I spit blood
people think I'm simple
because I am

you would rather study human acrobatics
like you would rare animals
but their talk blinds your raised knife

curling onto a fake memory
I smell the burning intelligence
just to watch is convenient romantic

Name it.  It kills poets.

I went out of my mind And
boiled My time into a Pop
Song and trashed it
Should I have not?

I can't write anything
and it's fitting since
who can read anyway
Why should they?

I thought it was OK
to burn Saturday
I was right
Weep

I scratch the surface
with perfect confidence
wasting everything
famously

You want me to write this
Spelling mornings and fastings
from the window of your past

In your very pure mouth ( god save it )
clanked metal mouthpiece
by cold water in a strange basement
or perhaps even less

Morning doves catapult
leukemia
Astro goth acid wars
White fire black ****** mania

Could we just kiss
right here this September
not have to wake up
or sleep ever again ?

Before you wake
rain's tongue shivers
behind your eyes

blue as Vishnu
pure water lifts
to wet the leaves above
your sleep

rain in orbit falling when
your dream commands

If you manifest in stone, fine
If all I find is dust I will
still carry you into the
impossible

There is no cure for paranoia
except a loaded firearm

I paint the war
It is laughter and invention

with loud clicking gasps
buried in the seed of fraternity

I sink sleeping
in the worst place
All the cameras
have instant action

The gunshots
are a weary book
what can't boil
is a dead hour

You bind coincidental
cramps with piety
killed before the tower
at the Exclusive

Isaac Dust
Born from the cold binary dust and
with no song or sigh returning to dust

He just has daughters and its a blow to
his pride since heirs inherit the
mortal remains and titles

But this isn't that kind of song
not now not when your stood trying
the locked box of fatherhood

He returns to the fire just to escape
a capitol offense flowing like morning
youth yawning your birth

Isaac remains still as dirt
guilty as bone and blood
assembled for horror and nuance

I'll be there to dance you past
the ruined barricades
when you surface
from the blackened silver leaf
of buried cathedral roofs
toward the songs that rise
from the orchards
and the draught of blackbirds
who tear from the spires
in your father's gothic prayers

one lingering arm will curl around
a fence of breath

formations appear against time in
orange arias

a remote nervous soundtrack tingles
ever silent

got hellhounds on my trail
my blood is in their nose
my fingerprints are on some sandpaper
in Arizona
All my money
in an empty bourbon
bottle
At the bottom
of Picayune bayou.

I know it's you at the end of this blind hallway
Robert Johnson
I finally feel safe to be overcome by fear
and hounds

Your patience is her picture
It is one last rose buried in her voice
Your careful dalliance becomes her wine
Her children wait at the port
It is vengeance
A stone animal turned in the earth
A white hourglass
She is the early thought
Your fingers perish on
the paper edifice of her temple

Her voice is the burning of autumn
curling out of terra cotta chimneys
making you strong in the cold
knowing that your time is
the lost time and our
days are the last days
You run on bridges over rivers
growing colder as
the dream of being human
on earth becomes startling

This september sky
does not have kind eyes
They stare at women's tongues
and never blink

September's thin blue arms
smeared with white angel's guts
reach into mens lungs with
mouthfuls of oxygen lust

If they beheld her whole form
they would turn mute and celibate
forever.

A lost cohort of arms folds improperly into itself
the hands red, mangled form spiked plumes
in the snow, on the rubble and pebble

Locust arrives white hot, blinding who
leaves a flight of magma terra
in her milk there is no puzzle and

each puzzle consumes its own waste
of perspira pursuing the next shoreline
of scalded blood and answers

Each convolutes by command to an
epoch of gaude and ***** where she
weaves a beaming scaffold

a quiet story
before the locked doors or
three way mirrors
a spider whispers

a lesson from a devil on hot
pale scales pipe high virginal
ballads in black smoke broken
by smiling Poussin

bells plunge down towers
sweetening prisons with
spiders clenched recitals
and 24 carat bourbon

I'm not the one
my words are scalded chants
which are not Art unless you
perish this minute

I sing bass in the street like
Walt except I **** women
If you read Latin my children
are graffiti

She said Let's go tonight and
drink drink drink
Fine I said
Now the world is our blood

I keep you next to me since
I'm a dead man for rock and roll
And you will stay alive
Like a song in the streets

bat flies out of the night into
my headlights
loops in draculan arc

it is 4 o clock in the
dark in the maze where my
heart knows no clock

the radio is singing a lesson in
lost love where the wires
buzz and intersect

animal notes in the streets

metal on the field of my tongue
hijacks your signal
like a surprise flight of bat

Drinking like savannah beasts at rivers edge she
is left to ferment
lethal like wine in an hourglass

she denies death and is weaponized
she defies god and is made a woman
she aims and in doing perfect harm is made

stricken with regret your running target stems
consequences whose stomach is filled by feather
memorials bound by leather turmoil

Shells in my face says Henry the eighth and Rome
will burn gladly on
a nest of Palestinian violins

When the flavor of the West has really touched you
you'll walk for the animals
The hotels will boil

the idea of your ear as a welcoming door
We pull your pacific heart into plush pine
quilted music and quiet knives

The execution songs are soft
blackouts of deer
The songs that pour from the mourning procession are

clever legal tactics
**** anthems and verbal
Castrations

There was a game whereby
we stood against a blank frieze
to catch small orange marbles
thrown by a devil who stood

balanced on a border the
border shook like water it
separated the end of the
world from the beginning

You had to throw back the marble
to disrupt the border
and the devil might fall off
but he always caught it

There was a game ...

A revolver bangs a silk bull
bucks her hanging

tactic steers away a million tongues

The nearest to heaven is your ****
that dances on a detergent blood vessel

The years make
you place an elegant
portrait in the empty chair
where the colossus
announced to faint
Legislatures
The years make
wagers out of cold space
sounding the hunt

those gods like rotten meat
end up in a dump
buzzed over by
flies

scratched and left over by some canine

'cause his master said
"don't eat that rotten **** you fool!"

there are worms
they don't think like that
if they think at all

but be modest, Charlie

give'em some credit

for they never complain for
making a fertilizer

now will you  look down that bridge

there lay a dried up whale
exploding boiling organs all around

and there hides
the entire city
behind the stink

now we wait, Charlie, 'cause we are patient

wait for some Kublai Khan
to interpret as he wishes
'cause, Marco Polo does not speak the same language

the language, the illusion it is.

and god is still
an ever rotting meat.

you cough your fake blessings
on paste paper targets

word execution
we watch the city strata
die in it or die by it

my own hand in accord
with your hand burned
I abide.

I put the heads of those come to reason on the walls
raised clean of explanation

I occupy observation towers swept with frost
and the listening posts during hopeless invasions

Forget it I came here to fight and
you'll bleed into your grafitti

which converted my thieves hand
into cognac soaked

mandolin adagios

On an anxious plain.  Water beads get fat and round.
Threatening a race to the equator.

Bulbs scream under the crust
Babies with weightless footsteps

circle suspicious seams and the dream
of valves and mysterious passages

If there were a moon
It would plummet as ten trillion blue comets

Were there oceans they would rise an automatic
body of salt bones and steam

We are Ether and Human as the same one time
filled with light and immortal

the cue I have abandoned
proves hard balance and
will **** every blank note

That is why we fight and
forget ****** vanishing
in sight like Virgins

Dark hands and Blood legends are
paternal engines stolen from
the memory of women beaten by
mouthfuls of silent lead secreted
from blurred civil wars names burning
from snakes tongue borne into
nameless wine cork
beneath the bloodmyths

The women behind the machines and
morphine webs stroked
numb in theatres

Whose skulls are like stone bowls
Whose hands are like straw
The names of their murdering children
are as old as the names of rivers

This. The button. The parent of all ills.
Connected and fed by rampant mouths.
Or by holes made by war.

This motion made perfect in
a court of infants on ruins
subjects

paper star and starlet
no time in a blaze
for the movie of your minute