The body is a vice.
experiments in the light
a unified flicker
on our way to the bar
4 blondes in an arcade
an intensified theatre
waltzing with whales
in a car full of left and right
a tumultuous leech is going up to the trees with the elevator oxygen
brothers in crisis
enlivened by songs leaking out of silenced ears
kissing the scorched horses off to the calm massacre
floors of gas shaking the war dry
the death of gravel
the aroma of sponges
restless tendons saddled to the backs of jewelled slaves
manifestation grasped from diamonds
lichen balls cradled in
her jewel-encrusted forearms
all in halftone
out on the flight to the lost,
the storm we cannot father,
out across the coquette and fields
just another game show
there are cracks in the prize
lectures falling, fragile
no message to the troops
no blemish in their nature
uniquely terrified of the council
this is spoiled burden
years spent crept under tables
crawling behind bushes, orbs
praying no one will see
hiding on the stage in front of everyone
all the eyes that don’t see
all the ears selectively programmed
we can never be anything great
until the rabbit hole blows up.
I don’t know how we can keep teaching the wheels to spin
they are castles of jam hardened by war.
When we get to the meadows of battle
the harvest always suffers for it
there will be nothing but daisy chains of rage
gangs of tulips soaked in blasphemy
lawnmower punks tortured by wool.
The hornets ignore the creepers weaving around chain link
they melt away under the friction
we swim in the mucus alone
eating mixed fabrics in the quiet night
poisoned thread spools dilate the muffled seas behind wet tongues
talons scratch atoms of smoke and you never could see the stars
because they are always going to be bigger than you
and I never could see the death running rampant on the streets
because I’ve been too focused on the death inside me
the lottery of the body
underneath a corroded idea where convertibles are irreversible
we always lose ideas
they will be replaced with dirt
the couch folds up centuries of forgotten dust
Intestines flare at the sight of car horns
we scratch away for more life
a scowling dance locked up in the house
an oval amnesia
it was worth being frozen.
The heart is still beating
A sluice slowing to eventual pause.
A midnight stroll into the clear void.
The same carbon-copy language.
Another day rises
One more tattoo on the soul.
Another cobalt yolk running down the sides of the valley,
bathed in membranes
where all the broken cats crash into acts of vigilance
clawing through compost bins as the
feathers and skin fly around.
The heart is a clock
embracing the verb in the science of breath.
The body is listening,
utilizing persuasion, inhabiting the prize.
The prize is ill-gotten.
wrapped in some 21st century thermal
The arteries are tarnished.
None of this is making sense.
Warm flushes invade the cheeks as muscles blush ashamed of the feeling of being confused by joy.
How can you enjoy? For whom do we need to seek joy?
Are we falling?
Slow drift inside letters
try to steer
float towards the spiral cannon of nothing firing through garbage cans full of gunshot victims, the only creatures still allowed to crawl the streets in agony because we all know the floods of blood won’t make a difference to the invisible armies continuing to march through our living rooms and the news will still tell us they are coming for us and the gun show is still scheduled for next weekend
The fear. The fire, the primetime storm
kicked in the chains
that fear that tends to boil entrails and burn cheeks.
An experiment in legible context.
Sometimes it fills the whole page,
spills over dripping onto the floor.
Wasted words for years wasted
wasting away the mind.
Time lost to fear taking control.
And down into the sea the shadows fall
There will come a time when it’s time to make fear afraid.