dawn state death

dyophysite pariah

and

consummate friend,

ouroborosity

out flung,

parthenogenic

threshing of body,

dissipation of cells

in kaleidoscopic panorama,

fanning ribbons in a stream,

lashing threads from the source

to and fro

to wisp away,

way away,

back to the annealing mind

and eternal mooring,

millennial moments

in a tiny bubble

in a cold froth

in a boundless,

feral,

opaque

struggle

to just

be.

"At the Rim of Its Royal Gardens"

I gasp above Its Royal Gardens

of clutching thorns,

of moonlit ice fog and calx,

of skies opened to the suffocating universe,

and strain to force the twitching vertigo away

and prise my eyes wide open,

beside the other limp salmon

drawn upstream to totter

over the rim of the crater,

the fast eroding cauldron,

full of coruscating explosions

of red and black and smoldering fire,

of arced lightning harpooned

to writhing floppers,

and of bronze-green light blaring out

from the bays of the endless blackened manse

at the epicenter of it all.

I hear,

above the thundering

and shrieking

of winds and bodies,

Its piano,

tingling like lime in my ears.

To gaze down through the striations of magma and frost,

of lightning filled vistas,

of frigid black vortexes of ash

dancing lithely and thrashing wildly,

all beneath Its delicately meandering discord,

is to gaze upon the horror of Impudence.

To look into those spanning bays and witness

It sway stiffly

in Its theater of bronze-green brilliance,

before Its jawbone counsel lining the endless galleries above,

disappearing into the upper reaches of the clouds

where the universe constricts

and sends the world into violent palpitation;

they sound out like wooden nickels and hollowed shells,

vibrating straight up and down

in niches of lavish comfort.

To watch the figure of crumbling alabaster

as It looks idly ahead

at scribbles above the mantle

transcribed from Its own mind,

and from the black powder vortexes

thrashing away in the moonlight

toppling mountains like so many stacked spindles,

Its alabaster nails ticking away at the keyboard

beneath dilated eyes and canines,

ear holes loosing blood into pools

that surround Its divan,

is to watch the horror of Impudence.

It plays the dead

down into the crater,

the ever straining crucible,

to incinerate the history of the people,

to invert the world,

suck it down and inside out,

and watch the core spin away steaming and pulsing,

to pierce the universe,

the stranglehold.

But time thwarts It.

It has to pass down doctrines

through streams of blood

and tingling piano taps

that trickle down

through grates in the floor

onto bodies that flop together

like fish in a hold

and spawn Its steaming progeny.

One pallid fry

will someday slide

down the pile

and slither and scramble through the blood

to survey Its world of grates and mounds,

and escape,

to fling aside Its predecessor

like handfuls of silt and gravel,

to take a seat at the piano,

to heed the doctrine of scribbles above the mantle,

to expunge the suffocating universe,

to inhume Its Royal Gardens.