Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
       Ichor
       Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
                                                             ­           opticon
                                                                ­        theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind **** beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)  
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
                                 Replace
                                               old blood
                                                                ­Regicide,
                                                     Warm
                                       running
                                 red
                         over
                Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
                 White emaciated pale weathered withered
                 wothered wondered want I want I wont ...    

A  L I L Y  S T A N D S
In  v a n i t y  v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
       I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
                     Look how it not dies in my hands.
                       Look
                               I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S  F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y  v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...

When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
                               River
                                         run red
                                                      with
                                                              or­ange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
                                          a
                   ­                         l
                                      ­       l
                                              To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.