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.

055: Haiku

Append missing time

to a blemished résumé -

hell is a mirror.

[Written long ago, slightly altered.]

054: Cave into me

Cave into me from the flowing blackness

behind subway windows, reflective of desire,

when the eye is lashed - dream trap ecstatic,

when I make up new geometries,

you're the golden ratio to my arch of dust.

Will you let me go, let me jump off the chaise,

run away with the driver, frail wings careless,

let me bloom into the egg shell man

I was meant to be, a poison seed

engulfed in turbid amnios.

We'll birdwatch and trainspot the apocalypse,

tired with a passion on Monday mornings,

a sordid mind's springs unwind so weary,

till we grow old and boring

and the universe puts us to sleep.

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.

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.