Sdeind



Increate ethereal chaos;
drop serene numbers darkling
empyrean sanctitites
this side of night.
Assay glozing predestination
spirits elect
to abolish thy creation,
unrepented unprevented.
Of thee I live
warning voice
wreck hell revolving
quit still still still.
Mean dealt equally,
choose freely at last relent
pale, ire, envie and despair,
enameled humid bow.


One slight bound imbround,
irriguous
umbrageous mantling
wanton ringlets, modest pride,
mysterious parts hidden
only in retrospectral daring
to tilt toward
a brighter a finer quire might
shatter the glass, the chalice the red
right-minded sign nigh on no they
lye groveling while I aloof do
interdict wandring.  Suffice
to contend the Invisible King
& the King in Yellow & the King
of Jeans fondly
open to themselves.
Habituations of the just
into their vacant room,
the brazen armory of God.
Outrageous omnific
golden compasses
tartareous firmament circumfluous
& conglobing oose
of the morning planet
mourning for the solemn nightingale
of sunburnt verdurous glooms.

y


tho hollow
how low will you
use swoon
wounds soon news
new suitors stir bruised
drooling smooth humid spendthrift
midriff cropped craft
laughed lateral
spasm having hardy harps
part partly sharp
praise raising venture
grazing space
the skeletons stink
in the closet
so put them in the fridge
to bridge the rainbow
gap between
the past & the dead
reckoning of the past
last in line for
bombs not soup
no soup for your
dreadful synecdoche
these stale Ritz
your only sustenance
a diamond
of the mindwarp’s
pawn shop dollar
bills still
at the window waiting
for the sun to fall
& the lion to sleep
with the lamb
let there be lite
let there be zucchini pasta
& let it be a metaphor
for life

The Job of Book

Turnt offerings
    foe & true
down & up
bore soils
unto the sitter in a bowl
the toolish faking torn
    unto bubbles
the crevices of the drafty
seen before the gun
cut up & shut off shut
up you dumb
bunny humping your
woe over hill &
under the bed where
you’ve bred more
mouths to heap curses
    upon the local
fig tree for reasons
never fathers wail
the dude flayeth
the daggers like a sunken
man the fountains
mauling the same shall
fry up the fruits
of the labored
    breathing they
tried to cease but
fuck what’s the point
in even squeezing
lemons when they’ll
give you
only just enough
to wow sickedness;
    nope in the goonday
lord of he that sayeth,
the game floweth out of his
mouth
his pwns are bongs,   
his heart will squirm,
as a phone,
bold & dull of phase.



If Your Barley Field Is Smoldering




O endurance,
you are my spiteful
upstream swim
just so I can spit
in the eye of those
who judged
my backstroke
to be insufficient
in the race to third
base.  A collapse
narrated by a soporific
announcer. Anodyne
to the max, specifically
a panacea for
nausea ad hoc
ergo propter
I barely even knew
what it was like
to live off the fat
of the lamb.  Taffy
at its core,
your prolapsed soul
patch might
scrap the dime store’s
spasmodic
codicil coddled by
imbeciles like
a bad idea or
a demagogue.  Throw
another fire on
the log.  Toggle
radio buttons
that killed the radio.
Fall on your knees
before the hole
in space that
is just
an emphatic O

Eponymous Trap




Gorillas in the mistaken
identity politics of dancing.  


Are you listening?
It’s me lucky charms


are unlucky three-footed
bunnies in the Maniac


Mansion full of Betamax
testaments, which may be


incriminating should
the world fail to fall


on me.  It’s up the air
like a chemtrail mix


of OK cola & pop
rock that blesses the rains


down in it.  I was feeling
some feelings


& that’s unusual because
I am the ghost in you


& your dance
floor fought for.  A silly


trick, it cuts the roof
of your


mouth, tears
the roof off of the killing


moon & its ringfinger,
too.  Three


decades of reckoning
& all we’ve got


to show for it is this
unicorn stranded


in a parking
lot, hooves hot atop coals


brought from the hardware
store to charge


Yan-gant-y-tan’s dread
lamp.  Come away with me


before it gets to be
2007 & the moon & the stars


& the sun all become
mumble rap.

Not A.




The
doctor, not the


monster.
The melodrama


& its
denouement.


The movements
within


the thin
tin rocket ship.


Sulfuric sparks
like


script, limn
the limbs


of the alembic;
reduced


from spirits,
the salve


reigns in
the storm


over
the archipelago


where pelicans
distend


their
mammoth riffs.  In the


CRISPR,
a sequence

of seeming random

numbers


bouncing along
the ionosphere


like fleas.
My garden


is full of
styrofoam peanuts


which look more
like fat maggots


from the air
where my cousin’s


drone
hovers.  Our


neighbor’s kitchen
counter


tops are coated
in human tears,


a model home filled
with blank books,


open the doors
& all the people


can see you,
too.

from (C)OVID'S METAMORPHOSIS, Book the Fifth

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