i escaped ripe stars
and teratoid light. impenetrable day.
masturbation-television, opium-internet.
careful interpretations of glued shit stacks
that they call the news.
soldiers train from their couches, crushed ants
spin on one leg toward a rift in Wall St.
and i think i hear a bell
from the top of a billboard, i think i hear a priest’s flesh
crackle in t.v. static. a pair of pliers clench
nuclear teeth, a woman waits in sweat,
her husband on a bed, in one hand his blood,
the other a passport.
the sun is cutting through, the sky is a sail,
horror in day-light,
scabs of detail, undead scuffle clearly
like the lunch-time metro.
i crave the old stars
minding maiden rings of red-woods.
secret night. virgin thoughts.
childhood, the imagination soil,
the paint-fauna, the canvas-crickets.
i dream of languages yawning from a dark pupil,
tendril orgasms fluxed by every blink,
the clock and the cloth ravaged under hammering moons.
with rainbows stroking midnight, the old stars dream of me.
i’m a toilet on a roof, i’m a map to a cliff,
i am one girl’s heart, i’m a thief.
one day, composing coils with an artist’s rigor, worms
climb through my ribs, my eye a flower-pot,
my hands begging for the winter, to be clean again.
obo cries, piano small-talk, saxophone-merriment,
the saddest song repeats inside an empty room
i left to watch more beauty fade.