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.

061: Distraction

A sequel, predictable,

rug pulled by things

of so little consequence,

no news, just symptoms.

Ravel ironic, stationed in wait,

on the way to somewhere, a surface truth,

central among distant beauty -

razors the eye, shakes the bowels,

as buzzards land around the neck.

Perhaps I have no right,

just walking on the shore, in line,

but furthest away,

shielded by night.

Uncomfort reaped, a bestowed memento,

cutis contained, to cast a shadow

and give birth to nothing

but words and shades

of deep monochrome,

to a logic dire, beyond Champollion's reach.

Natured/nurtured, readily lost,

thought clouded, to strip naked in the wind,

could the ink used to write the guidelines

be drying still.

058: Sleep of the ants

Gasp self, formed by matter against absence,

calloused knuckles and radio songs intimate,

forcing the outside world in,

figures deluge beyond the Cartesian.

This here is condemned,

run-down house atop a restless tomb,

wherein the blind tornado sleepwalks,

cradled by the deepest roots,

lonely seeded from Adam's skull.

Step in, needle cushion, collection of comedowns,

polar north spells only nowhere,

the dead, never dead enough to bring out,

when the tremors of raging weakness

keep them awake through the sanguine dawn.

Crutched eyelids howl to fall,

but thoughts, twitching, carry on,

as ego bursts and blasts in anti-Zen,

a display nurtured to extract cheers and tears.

Always lost in stargaze from knee-dug glens of salt,

with nerves exposed to autumn's gnaw;

just let lie motionless.

057: Names

On the static shore

of a remote lagoon,

I had dinners in the dark

with the moon up high

and an empty plate

for those who live in starfields.

Distance, relative

when trapped in a cage of echoes,

wandering the streets

of the city of unbuilt houses;

still the silver screen whispers

in icepick tongues,

diminutive and demonic,

shards squatting

the path of imbalance,

while I kept replaying

sequences of near joy,

lodged in secret graves.

I stretched my mind's limbs

to touch the sun's mantle

from the bottom of the pit,

starving and solitary,

in kinship of the king,

with a mouthful of lead.

This war, ongoing and unanswered,

cruel yet incumbent,

never released me

into the freedom of wolves,

but taught me I'll never breathe

the air of heaven.

056: Other end of the world

City shapes go on,

omnidirectional,

through the smell of plastic

and sweat

and a billion whispers.

See cardboard rows

flashing -

blind paparazzi;

electricity purrs,

lightbulbs mimic stars,

behind a corner,

a butterfly flaps its wings

in a glass box

and the line that divides

draws a blood equator.

The outside

isn't that pretty

seen through a hole in concrete,

through a pink eye

and an evil word,

- like a periscope

from a sane bubble,

refusing to collapse

back to thought.

Shaking paralyzed,

detuned,

almost bloodless

and up with the blues;

the arms that hold heaven

will reach tomorrow,

but tonight,

nowhere isn't far enough.

053: The spill

From barrens to deserts,

partaking clockwork migrations,

bacilli of a tectonic world that crumbles slowly,

back to the frozen sweat of the void.

Black hole heavy logs

intersect at right angles,

where my mind falters and my skin knows not,

rabid titans' tug of war,

the phantom of order scared by destiny's scythe.

Fugitive patterns, dismantled by the wind,

wrote the story of a new dawn

on a cold prison wall,

lavishly eroded by the nails of left hands.

A sole beacon, in the distance,

a man's seductive blind rage,

spilled and scattered

to the heart rhythm of carrion calls.

I hang on dark clouds, disseminated

at the crossroads of free fall trajectories,

scribing a single word

on antique rotting bricks

from the ruin of a golden promise;

I'll espouse dusted bones in my flea bed,

upon a mattress of tentacles,

intertwined fingers - starving grubs,

shaping what used to be a perfect body,

long before the illusion faded.

049: Spring in Luzon

With a contorted mouth agape,

frothing sermons for seconds past

and myriad mistakes

that congregate in whirlpools of shame,

I'd feel the pain of a tiny, endless world

dissipating in a structured void

of silent, hydrogenic granite.

Away, pustulate words

that never healed betrayals,

raked bone chapel, mine,

in a splatter of rearranged

gaunt icons of the holy,

a haunting of perfect ghosts

in self inflicted lacerations.

My friends of misery would stand tall,

proud like lead crosses,

as I'd absorb the nails to atone

for feasts of skin and milk,

to every place solid or dreamed.

I'd picture trading blood for comfort cold

to solve the riddle of war,

for love becomes the word of flame,

of throbbing membrane

in godly, infernal delight;

but the spirit whispers forgiveness,

seeping through the seams

of walls built of question marks.

For fire and water to be wed or gone,

perhaps as life requires pain,

freedom demands a little death.

046: Torn

Extract the truth,

like a tooth

- a fire lash

outstretching

the horizon -

and drive the sword,

though the sea boils

with icebergs

charred.

The house I built

with sprinkles

of heaven

and pockets of forever,

between subway stations,

insane with wine,

drunk with madness,

loosens

at the seams.

My harbor

from atom storms,

forgive me,

as my days

are links

of bronze chains;

swimming

in the quicksand,

these astral rooms

have everything but doors.

A blessed life,

my heart's tempest,

the dream tempted

to compress infinity

in single

seconds

and no beacon

in the distance.

Slaving in freedom,

burning in thirst,

a vice of the soul -

I still shun this cup;

I know not;

I deny;

unkempt, unquenched,

mirror nemesis.