075: Untitled

     Out of land.
     Out of sky.
Pillows and blankets
will not protect
the aged child anymore,
astray in the compound eyes
of his guardian mosquito -
polaroid butterfly in soot,
paperclipped to a nude wall,
mechanical heart run dry,
washed saline
in the rivers of Arcadia.

     Out of words.
     Out of wit.
And from the sidewalks,
angry shouts of termite mobs:
we are still inside, in place,
where the angel crashed,
X'ed by the nail
that crucifies the map,
because the long hours
only follow themselves,
as the penguins search
for their long lost egg.

The definitions
     of everything that falls apart,
     reset in stone.
The chalkboard of history,
     from seaside cliffs
     to chicken soup.
From the caves of self,
     the light was always
     blinding neon.
In the cold of dawn,
     the phoenix brooms
     his own ashes.

074: Untitled

Half life is committed
to cardboard coffins,
spiced up with made up memories
of an event horizon
reached,
nights scarred
in teeth of dawn
and the barking of insomniac dogs.

Concrete miles of
alien crowds,
they ripped away the folds
from the milk white cheeks
of being alone,
the selfish snowman,
lost in Rome,
pouting with a left elbow raised;
enemy sun will burn the tears
and the coat hangers
of fragile flesh.

It's the same old cry,
chewing at pages
of twisted prose and awkward lines,
just a different voice,
bruised by cigarette smoke -
fear of silence keeps it awake
or is it
the most bittersweet lie.

073: Alphabet

I had explanations to give
but the words I could find
were all green
in meaning
and they crawled out
on a Saharan muscle.

Brick faced,
across a distance
from an absence,
tombs of Pharaohs,
belittled,
child's speech.

I'm crafting the tools,
stronger arms and better words,
ever voiceless;
red is the first new letter.

070: Learning

Years of insomnia
in stuffed plastic bags,
the crowded sewers
we walk in line,
a recurring dream
in black mirrors,
it shows I have a hard time
learning.
With backward feet,
half human,
a world of colors,
northless,
sinking in the red shift;
breadcrumb
the distance
through the tunnels
of the day after
the fall,
documented so
on rotten terracotta.
The skin's already old,
mismatched seams,
you couldn't see it
and I couldn't spell it.
Arid are the dreams,
deserts in monochrome,
a recurring ritual
flashes it back,
It seems I have a hard time
learning.

The lake of my blood is heavy.
Father, I hope you are forgiving.

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.

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.

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.

060: Death and the Antiquaries

Island within

a scattered archipelago,

low tides still expose you,

winds erode

and waves grind,

while a random snapshot

mimics serenity.

Leaden beams

carrying the wounded,

so fascinating

from afar,

the reduced bodies

of the once mighty,

a fleeting relief,

away from the fall.

The bridge behind your back,

only floods will reveal

its final pulse

and its absence will mirror

the screaming void.

Time is no friend

in the echoing caves

of this freakshow,

so I hoped blindly,

come spring anew,

they would clone me

using DNA from littered

cigarette butts.

059: Trip to the treehouse

Eggshells rise and roll

the crowded dining hall

and fingers freeze pointing away;

on the jungle's rim, a foxhole,

leak through the pipe

and sandbox the mirage,

with a twitch of fear,

between sudden trenches

of the outside.

Freed to the vasts of self,

still quaked back in Cretan mirrors,

intimacy - desert well,

nurtured by the mute fading,

then dive it for a moment

to the berserk sound of life;

and before leaving here,

dust the patchwork

seeking a lifeline

all undividing.

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.

052: Untitled

Electronics

ring the wake.

Methods to the chaos,

ideation in red,

beneath the ground,

sexual,

like Mishima's Mustang.

The people.

The noise.

Inhale deeply,

to the end of the earth;

crawl

across nails and needles.

Storms,

gentle violence.

Heart of the world,

the word,

hanging, descending;

let it land.

Heroes of isolation

crowd together,

pallbearing

the last sweeter self.

Never was I

more alive.

051: Februarie jalnic

The day the sentient beast discerns

the polar desert of its loneliness,

the day volcanoes of revolutions erupt

in the obsidian silence of love,

drugged for an everlasting presence

attainable like the surface of the sun,

lost in treasure maps to the grail of the high

that makes all the lows seem breadcrumbs in a trail

in the obsessional ravines of pale concrete

and seasonal affective crucifixions,

raging, frothing, spitting, pineal bathed in venom,

straining the unlengthy chain.

A day, a trip through empty glacier halls,

where footsteps count the years

along meanders decaying gently like snowfall,

observe - the colors of the rainbow are all black,

divine symphony played on chords of leaflike lives,

trying to break the code of an error syntax.

The day today is every yesterday and every tomorrow,

serpent godfather at the head of the table,

his own tail on a silver platter as main course,

all the while Cronus keeps gnawing on his children,

building a shrine of strength on pearly bones,

a bleak February in the microscope of solar winds,

today is just another day.

050: Lines in empty spaces

I see the world whirl by

in the glow of lonely streetlights,

tallying seconds in swarms of smoke,

stretched along plastic firmaments,

until a bright consummate day

will blow wide the windows

of my solitude cocoon.

The breeze hints of her footsteps,

as I revel in the barren distances of crowds;

come visit, image traced in sullen red,

from an electric alcove -

shielding meager ties,

while I remember years of eternities,

countdown to an apocalypse of sleep,

the gray comfort of being a master

of a cold, nothing night,

seconds tallied in swarms of smoke

and the glow of lonely streetlights

in which the world whirls by.

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.

048: Together

I still see him sometimes

in splinters of volcanic glass,

standing on my right shoulder;

and sometimes I fall back

to visit the empty rooms

where he used to hide and play,

now, animated only

by a desert wind

blowing memories.

Our blood, our tears fading,

melting into the night,

clawing at the walls

of a perfect nothing;

and if my heart was heaven,

I'd build you new flesh,

brighter than pulsing stars,

and if my heart was hell,

you'd rise to steal the sorrow

from humans' brow.

As you were fire,

I will be ice;

and as you were the word,

I'll be the teeth,

as I disowned, so I do miss.

Together in the estrangement

of concrete confines,

and the tenderness

of untamed flowers,

in frailty and power,

we'll remain the same, eternally.

047: Homecoming

Between cotton walls of grey

caravans trail and trod along

a flat earth nailed to paper skies,

marked with kurgans of giants,

mantled by glitters of cold,

decelerating just a bit

to usher in an age of questions.

Within sublime frequencies,

the movement never ceases

and shaking teeth keep grinding

with consummate dendrites

for the invisible door,

sat one step beyond

the mating point of sea and sun.

Striving to net parhelions,

our roots are touching rock,

with every dawn and every war,

yet we'll hold fast, like blades of grass,

each crashing wave,

each footprint laid

in swiftest sands the wind won't name.