Nothing so dead about the place.
Rat fingers. Estrogen and speckle crust.
Reap from the eyes, open those walls,
like curtains to neuropeptides, renovate
that pasty red to the toxic hue
of inquisition blue.
The kind girls wear with pastel stain
crawling out their hair.
When the closet monster turns neon
you’ll know you’re real. Weave wiring
into moebius strips, chase your tail
till you find divinity upon the nails.
Filter the macabre through a Vaudeville,
a biome of laughtrack and gag reel,
The politicians play slapstick,
the bank plays God.
God. Moth wings thick as napalm,
meteor’s slight as pinpricks.
God. Holocaust loving as leisure,
soft lull of white noise
in the back
of the eyes
God. And his televised angels.
Scabbed into the skitzoid bloodbath,
spend three months in a Dada coma
wake to pop art and a red square
CAR CRASH! Fist first into infinity
and dirt.
Wash the coal from your eye.
Rear view mirror stretches, two ways
smoking the polish hood. Keep stealing light
for the hypercube. Incomprehensible knot,
choked fuse fit of spark, chewing our way
out our brains into the light, into God.
Keep building not
for nowhere. Playing card caricatures
will catch you
as you fall and smile. They laminate,
shrink wrap the baggage,
and name you Lucifer.
Flatland is a family too.
Flatland loves you.
But you wake up.
This is what you remember:
Junkyards are bodies. (streetlights
crooked spines) The power snaps
ecclectic fits. (the accidental rythm
of migraine) A shudder of vision
(is not God.)
Oh and, this:
Nothing so dead about the place.
So it’s cozy, and lucid, and dreams
may bring cousins but I’ll touch that
in time.
When I rest on the Parthenon of bone,
sleep neath those femur arches,
count the funeral pyres
like fireflies. On the horizon
I wake with my shoulders conjoined
to the mess of the Parthenon, the amalgam
of limb:
They’re gone now.
My breastplate’s still frozen to my spine.
Curtain call
the paramedics are late again
fade the music
cut the scene
roll the credits.
