It's not that she won't try or
that she is wallowing in fear
it's just that
she is still learning
how to make mistakes

Gusts, pushing and pulling,
tearing at the roofing,
rattling the window panes,
howling down the chimney, screeching around the corners of the house --

the house that always stands on number five,
no matter what the combination, the co-ordinates
nor which way the chicken feet turn,
keeping me awake at night,
lamenting La Mort . . .

But after the seventh year,
the wind and I
came to an agreement:

Crowing at fifty-two tantras an hour
was far too slow.

The blood of dinosaurs
pump through the soil
serving as cold platter
for the lit Norwegian cigarette  

The war of music pump paragraphs of hope
through the ear of youths
burning lips in pursuit of happiness.

In search of naked pictures of God in our mirrors,
the internet spent our laws and threw our only hallelujah out the sea—
and Arachne smiled, knowing she’s now the Womb—
and all men come in the belly of eternity in order to be.

people don't take enough showers in the dark.
those that do- or have know that
one of two things will happen,
either you feel yourself fill up the space like some gaseous soul
or you shrink as the void consumes you.
it differs from time to time.

Death told her
           her life should end
and he was her friend

Calmly, she stole my gun
     she walked outside in the sun
pulled the trigger, set the mood
barrel to her head to conclude

I saw her head come undone
,,, Reached down, for my gun
Eyed the chunks in her hair
Now to my head |
                               |I draw a rose there.

I staggered through the desert, dressed
in brown rags,
ripped. I was surrounded by flies.
They picked at my sweaty forehead,
spoiled my food.
I had in an old wicker basket two crisp apples,
which are brown
now, thanks to those flies.
My feet are dry, cracked and ******,
not from flies—
from hot scorpions.
They hide under sand
and pick at my feet.
One day I left my house n’went for a walk; kicked open my front door
        walked over the old stone bridge over water bright and blue, for
        miles and miles,
on footpaths by little rivers, through mossy forests,
knee-deep in marshes,
hiking over rocky, cold mountains,
stammering across the plains.
I saw the desert:
punched me in the gut.
Beautiful,
I thought—
immortal.
A great tornado of sand
came whisking from the dunes. I checked
my watch: The glass was shattered. The hands were bent crooked.
I unstrapped
my watch and threw it
on the edge of the desert and
I sprinted toward the endless tan horizon, kicked off my rotten shoes
        to feel the hot sand between my toes and ran. I fell and fell asleep.

I was bored in my old, old house.
The floor was always swept to shine,
my bookcase:
big, glossy, oak monstrosity.
And no, I did not have a wife,
or children.
I lived in a sunny village,
paved with stone.
By the fountain, birds sang, merchants sold felt and mallets.
I’m too tired for explanations.
And besides,
there is no trick, I left to leave,
to run and jump and roll and howl.

I knew it would end,
like this or something similar.
I decided to
just lie down,
and the vultures came like a great black cloud to circle,
and the heat,
the headache,
my body buzzed cooled a dizzy, breaking feeling came and body was freed
        like ice smashing to shards . . . on desert floor, old rags drenched
        in sweat-body.
I open my eyes wide.
I keep them open.
Tears come to my eyes.
I let the sun blind me.
I turn over on my side and close my eyes, see red.
My eyelids are hot.
The vultures caw
and shriek like
squealing pigs.
I’m dizzy and my head feels thick.
The vultures will eat me,
rip my skin with beaks,
and the flies will buzz around me
until I’m bones, but
I came here just to come here,
and I lied here just to lie, and
I lived just to live,
so then I’ll die now just to die.

I turned lesser men to stone, snakes nipping idly at my dress:

I am monster, living incarceration of a profane affair.

I turned sacristy into brothel, my beauty was perverted to despair.

I am monster, grotesque face topped by a hissing nest.

As you approached, and I felt a grim shiver in my chest;

I glowered my petrifying glare,

But you were given hiding-cape', sword, winged sandals to wear,

And mirrored shield my powers to arrest.

My mask of potent shame was made:

Lips blood red and eyes of smoldering coal,

Around my face writhing serpents twist and roll.

I saw my eyes in your hand, I wailed a last serenade.

Gasping in the instant before – everything went stone cold.

I am weapon, crafting you a garden of entombed souls.

1Hades’ cap of invisibility

you wrote me light
and I fathomed dawn
in your moonlight-tainted quill