034: We will never meet again.

Step by step on the electric treadmill,

an electric tombstone epergne

in a funeral of watts and what ifs,

cask laid bare like a pirate ship

ghosting in the unbreezed milk, without refusal.

And few extol the throbbing thread

of vivid smudge by sprawling palms - tendril tight,

internal to digest the charging tides

that ooze and roll throughout

lives of commutes and numbed prayers,

in conked out breath, condemned and wishful;

lifelines connected in needle eyes,

sowing strips of spent skin and dried digits,

seams in desert camouflage outfits

and noose neckties curdling a dirge pattern.

Another pint of Greek fire concurs,

submerging the candle, nurturing the rage

to spit in saturnine hunger with a stabbing spine

spitefully built against the dexter branch.

Hark! Your fixtures are graves of ice,

your speedways slope into incisive winds

that jag against our fragile flesh,

so boil and distill - and let only such elect few

as pollen drops be spared from consumption,

for flashlights are futile in the conquering dusk,

appropriated house of fog, where hunters stalk and nail

mere exhales of long-gone gods;

in the churchyards and broken plains

of this earth never will you find me.

030: Stand at the crossing

Hang

and bleed

in the unknown.

Red line focus,

twist the neck

and plant

colors of war

on a wave battered shoal.

Power vertex structure

of maternal ground

I raise

as my jade lifemask.

In weakness,

so strong.

While the scattering

runs on

all around,

chasing the light

across cold void,

I'll wallow in

the black unseen.

His aeon fingers secure

my speck of sand

as whole

as can be,

in the mind of a man,

in the heart of a child,

in the eye of a mouse,

roaming the field.

Demons deny,

turning face,

turning back.

The granite star

is a mouth ever-hungry

to replenish desire.

Don't stop.

Don't break.

All I possess,

reduction to unreason,

wish to mire

rotating arms.

Field mice dream

of being children.

Children dream

of being men.

Men dream

of sleep.

[last 2 lines adapted & expanded from somebody's Y! messenger status message]

025: Numb and numbered

Toddling tide already worn,

swim in faces, reading episodes

of ache flicks and ether exits,

in a precise drift silence signals

a sniper reloading datum trace.

Her length and width to southern winds,

we count in seconds that won't sit still,

hypertension housed in heavy husks,

landlocked within shelves of stardust,

intimate whispers mantling cathedral walls

upheld by matchstick counterforts.

Glints in grinning eyes shed light

on catapults of word and bone

with torment tongue armed, milk white,

chalk black cadaver silhouette,

but candor ships sway tenderly,

just beyond the morning rim.

Play chords in red, cast self in sleep,

the music of mountains built on clouds,

hear and see with concrete sense

a ravaged circuitry bouquet,

killing fields of fear and desert dissent

playing for keeps, praying for rain.

Paste on the pavement a human smudge,

a fragile grace steals my breath away;

never account for a ruminant string,

we'll ride to the sun on wings of night.

016: Plowing the fields

Velvet concrete drawn, yet the voice lingers on,

drilling rusted joints for anointment oil

to bless the spiral word meteor

adored in doomsday clock cult cogs.

Hushed in oxide parlours,

a colorless rainbow to hang from;

hear the waves, fear flavored,

mother the conjectures of revolutions,

in ebbs and flows, chart peak mountaineering.

Subject in silence, nerves meet air,

exposed in the flaming wireframe,

shoulderblades to sever the neck.

Aeries loom above the inside,

third eye retinal scan, the obscene abyss

reflects starlight from hell's firmament.

If I'd build a bronze serpent from the ashes of the unborn

to douse the radiance of the night

and terraform dried candlefields,

wouldn't such absence bleed the vision

with toxic subsequence?

Dip the spear in tranquil ebullience,

monotony is but covert self-fulfilling prophecy,

while correction fluid stains the body (subtly),

one can trace antidote formulas

in the secret discourse of tenants of wings.

011: Midas and Mausolos

Spiral towards crush depth

from the heavenly cage of no convection,

lulled by rusted cogs' soundtrack.

The echoes of stones I threw into the eyewalls

strayed on drumhead fossils,

deaf end streetlights spoke through blister apertures

and a glint waltzed in infrared,

tracing a gradient ascent on freezer rainslopes

from the caverns of tungsten stars.

Photosynthetic folk, I'd clear your molds with blades of shade

to reveal the shining amber beneath fallen leaves,

hidden in the asphalt of roads that lead below.

Monstrous reflection ingrained I wish to excise,

so grant me a beacon scalpel to collapse the wall

between foundations and utopian recipes of the dividing word.

I appropriate the inverted sea to sail upon

to timeless finisterres of combustion momentum

and heartblood blossoms no thieving hand can reach.

Beyond mountain shields and screaming air, one day

gravity will be but a memory.