Do you have a coat named Cassandra? Are we the dead swordfish cripples? Are we postponing the end of reality?
Is one man perched on a cloud of skunkweed aromas and spiral lights?
Are you trying to sharpen your pencil with fingernails submerged in lethargic gardens?
God is decrepit. Can’t even stand up straight or walk inside the lines.
Kick out the sky like a drum A strange blind man with yellow teeth evolves through a pearl necklace in a cloud of birds and helium as soft as a paper serpent, as simplistic as the underlying echo of raindrops beside an apocalyptic train tunnel.
Go ahead, try and be a woman.
Flamingo! Or was it Flemenco?
Everyone’s looking for a Mormon groin To pat on the toilet. Everyone wants lap-teasers; bursts of energy contained in porcelain urns.
You realize anything you write down that rhymes is mystified, temporarily, the real nothing curving back into the landscape.
You look fine, figuring out the label.
Before the swollen eyes burn, ***** wanders and remodels. It reminds her of the cavern that remained in the side of her head and the stain its warm good-byes left on the open half of the flower sun on the Indian tapestry.
I want to share the broken cores of the walls with the rippled blue label on the ******* clad bottle. They will meet, marry and view death as friends watching each other deteriorate into puddles meant to be wheatfields.
No vines, no veins
they pace only to summon the light. This speech is spellbound and holds no boundaries to our power.
Don’t follow my path to indignant extinction.
Breath likes resurrection Death likes restitution.
It was the stare I remember and he was the one who lost the lickable paper I vaguely (and foolishly) recall with pride for playing anything less than psychotic
I am the psychotic I’m the last of the crass; a head I can brush her hair with.
The crash of a familiar tongue distances itself from the ivory face of a December midnight, standing in shadows of crimson silence.
We see no need to thank, but do it anyway, by necessity. It’s a fear that wakes you in the night. You turn on the light and there’s nothing there.
Where is the lifestyle I want?
Flying flying flying flown, as a vision through the light, a vision beyond that vision I saw Death and the echo of raindrops remain boxed together in a stool sample.