unmadeclean, now, of your diaries;sun cut, singed through the brumepure and guiltless as a virus, whitewithout a needle eye or task tolay into your inner brides, the bentto disturb your wealth of fruit skinsor run my pathos through the calculusand see my dimples rise as underlingsto terrorize your pond face, scold its carefulglass with frost or lunge into your acquiescence,the satin cinch for your panoplies,to make pillows for my wreck.what am i when i’ve no effigy for doubt,no biorhythms to sicken with childish bellows from my song?there is no dormant eggshell to gather up this lossand nothing left from which to birth;if i cannot be of something else,then nothing will become me.
trick1whispers of undoing . . .the atmospheres have whittled down your hours to their knobswhile i auscultate against your breastto listen for Omega. you are some Lethean angelwingless, bloodied and cadmium colouredmired with filthy tongue and blessedwith wind-up theories of foreign origins;for you don't come from hollow bonesalone.i see the flourish of your hopes, and mine, a crushing multitudewe spend into the scarcitywith phantom lives we'd live and dieand live again.forgetting i remade myself, i reach for infant memoriesand so they spider off the linesthat chase behind their nullity; a fire, a grave in all dimensions;dead and gonein this one.if only you could breed awaythis mortal bentmadly rebirthing a race from your sepals'till the moon was full pitchspilling of your white.will you catch up in the night on astral limbsambiguated eyes in chime-less windfrozenin hopeless permanence?but we yearn to move and to undressthe arc fr
sadists are people, toothis sun has found its nihilistson cold curbs,on concrete roads.everyday, one of them guards the subdivision.i thought, “a sphinx, a totem piece, an angel of death.”whatever, my sleepy projectionist. it’s on my way anywhere.it’s on my way home.silver-brown maw, it’s at its ugliestshriveling inside of possum fleshin a slow taut hugof the last emptypromise.i won't be caught uplisteningforone.just lay therefor me.
dilution calculatoryou can find me anywhere, easy as dollar store Valentinesmy hands make work, you can replace theman overdose of ripe bouquetsin every downtown mausoleumi like to hurl my aspirationsinto a pile of tongue and kneessame as other wannabe Bohemian abstract drip-artdrunkardsi'm just another wind seedalley vineno one plantedno one seesi'm everywhere in blue-sky-earthyou'll neverlose mein it
Blackbird Pupilsdont look at mewith those eyessunlightburnspeckled brownbluebird green and hazel-achemine, already hollowed outtapetum breachedand daily leak-ingi cannot bear yourknowing glance)/ocular-saw)(/intelligence(youd see all those wax demonshadesyoud know the clockworks runonpain-delaytoday,i read some other poet,his words were blackice bludgeoners, soundless suturing socket spikes, hammergods, each one,the last cicada to flee the moult.but he hasnt the orbs to ruin me.almost no one has|them|.
engramscyanometry is a wordand when i first allowed for iti thought 'here's my Catcher in the Rye!'but, i heard you've already diedand i was never your apostleand tomorrow, or in some thousand yearsthey'll find no fossil in your ancestral cave hauntswhich proves i ever took your namealoudorfor colours in the sky.
newshours no longer whittle into daysstrangled and uncalendared; forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue facecollapseand sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old; god’s bad math: infinities as remainders.however they lapsei spend the better part of themburning through the flyleaves for mandalas sealed in hell bank notesfor ashes of your epiloguefor the end of throatsin songs and news.no one can regret their past but of futures . . .like when planets will re-purpose youinto interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of cometsand you’re wondering why i'll never find youwhen datebooks write us in the living.
ObedienceThe capitulum collapse of a daisywithering the routine to an umbreof a potted face ambers like an embolus sunken in the sinew of a smile, drowning dreams to burn from an old sunin Laconian abstinence. Though,