the sky on my back
is heavy now, and the thin light
a shadow.
i am perched in my godforsaken.
but my wings dare the holy
and my mind
tumbles up
like a last supper of glass worms
and extra ******
strychnine.

in the blink of an  I
there's a wink
with a slovenly iris...
and a dull pearl
*****-blissed
in the shattered tooth
of my gnawing
gob.

a low frequency
in the high place
of my moon ***** cul de sac...
and an exact replica
of my dispossessed
reflection... a memory
that forgets best
as it mulls over
and dwells more ******
than the asking price
of my naive
assurety.

it is perfect. and glum.
but the gem is the thing
on the tip my tongue -
seeking and slithering
betwixt.
it's a fixed
star.
or
some
awful charm
looming in the dismal
and lurid
in the
Carnival.

you
are the ghost
that feeds my starvation
and the means
to an end.

a complete drink of sour kindness.

lopping off heads
like a queen of knaves and barking mad
mittens.

it's very cold
where we come from...
but we go
back.

and to
return
is to
speak
a
lost word
where we
found
it...

leaping reason like a squirrel
to a bitter branch
where the apples
are stones
and the leaves
are not amazing
today*.