069: Lines for geology

Screen of blank light

for a night sky,

the eggshell of dirt

held together

by a latticework

of radiance.

The world ebbs

and flows

through hours of erosion,

its orogenies,

razor sharp.

Pale screen - frail shelter,

rotten rose ego,

ingrowing,

haunted

voluptuously -

how mindless,

the scraping of nails.

In red dusk

encompassing,

the street feeds

with silence;

flee momentarily,

a wolf second,

then it's back to

the infernal womb

that blindly devours

transient hours.

068: Natural blue

Clouds

deconstruct themselves,

then sew their

scattered limbs

back together,

like Bellmer dolls.

Through the seams,

a gale of gold

erupts,

tearing away

the grey

from rainsoaked walls.

I watch

the tracers rip in triumph,

the rain of fire,

in filaments

from behind deep

shadow bodies.

The twin arcs

dispense

a wolf's caress,

loving and harsh,

that rolls through my cave,

to dive open

a well of joy.

067: Animal leaves

Animal leaves behind

the boarded house

of its mother,

to raise a stronger prison

by the soul ejected

trough the gates

of the outside.

Fear braids

a karmic noose

and as they fall forever,

the walls expose

their throbbing seams,

spitting out

the seed of dust.

The vast endless offers

cold comfort,

in its clockwork

bodies rise

and return to the dark,

impervious.

Singularity concealed

beyond continents

of solids engraved,

yet stray in the flux

I will not last

to see the sun

swallow the sky.

066: Cloud forest

Nowhere

streets go,

instants accumulate

in late nights,

language isolate,

without an alphabet

to give

perfect life,

unfinished.

Far away in

the moist mist,

slope rides

in the forest's cradle,

the silverback

bellows -

a refuge

long lost,

almost free.

Speaking through the

mouth of

the copper haired

girl of autumn,

shatter the

gilded bars

of identity,

river escapee.

Solitary,

the alchemy,

obsidian

to my heart,

back broken

beneath

wood skin,

sharklike,

all just to get there.

The forests wait,

next of dawn,

in a copper hair sky.

065: Little sun / Runic

I roam the outskirts of the living world,

with postcards of the petulant and vile,

on subway walls and empty roads,

settled behind by fragile snow.

My fat moon, in the belly of the night,

I slowly sleepwalk below granite skies

and flicker forever to flame for the sunroof,

vested to the sun that blinks through the vortex.

It shoots photon arrows to shatter the ice,

shy nuclear heart, brighter with every revolution,

a trace of wings, brings comfort from the spirit

and ever so often, a savior's sword.

And in the wake of its leave, gradients of ash,

crowds chatter, like grinding, in foreign tongues,

clouds of doubt fester and shower the fear

that maybe the hands of light are just lips of a ghost.

Circus pet struggling 'round the axis of null,

sun in my head, blood loss bleeds into the golden path.

I will wait at the gates of dawn all the while

tucked away, the runes sleep in the darkness.

064: Conclusion

Gallery of mummies,

murdered parts of self,

wrote in red, the clouded life,

as exposures drag the head,

the earth drank the blood

that seeped between

the cobblestones.

In our mausoleum,

honey shrouds the corpse,

the hurting words

and the loss

of what was never there.

Absent angel,

present the echo,

in the concrete world,

pitch black solid;

I answer to -

find myself

in blank days,

terror in the night,

hold back

the rose of anger,

nude skin stripped

of denial.

Sun flare whipped,

when they speak,

every word,

the knife described,

parchment the mouth,

throwing stones

to build the cathedral

Cold dark hides,

restoration in the distant,

cupboards of my heart,

the spiders' racket;

you may feel

a little sting.

063: Teethgrinding in Heaven

A miniature coffin laid down,

without a sound

from the stonefaced crowd

steering 'round the cenotaph.

More woman than child

and less child than that

weathered avatar.

Where undirected tides go,

beneath a hungry moon,

from a soil dewed in tears,

flowers bloom of rot

in delightful creation.

Imperfect angel descent

from the stars gazing back,

we come together

and I shudder to think

I'd choke on a mouthful

of your innocence.

Human dirt still tastes sweet,

like the growing pains

of a world suspended

in the instant of our lives.

An alchemical balance frame,

which way do we go from here,

maybe the rising will tell.

Purge.

Repeat.