for Carina,
to destroy habit and boredom

The sweaty dog tongue of the sun hung overhead,
meditating and destroying.
The serf blinks
naked on public display.
He tries to drown it out, but
the electric noise sears the crowds undone by sound
a punk ballet.

The knife argues between two sets of hands.
The tragic poison of the dropper enters his heart as he releases the
beast,
forgetting the land, he heads east
to meet the czar and his golden sands,
his horses completely boiled, sweet machines,
their pistons sagging.
Strung out deeper than the night,
Heavier than moonlight.

A shroud of anti-reason
permeates the season.
The red teeth of rust cut the blind fog’s eyes.
Thicker than light;
it glimpst god once, then dies.
What is the fog but one enormous ghost?

The white teeth chatter the virus of language,
and smile in the dark
where the soldier stands naked and forkless,
his coughs and sighs
notes of red noise,
body covered in the blood of nails
with flowers in his eyes
as he gazes into the sun.

Stewing in the moral cement,
she tried, but the ash tray of his eyes betrayed no thought,
eyelids, closed coffins in his sleep,
unholy atoms havoc doth wreak
death immutable.

The dharma bum wanders the ancient night,
too cool for karma, dead eyed, sexless in chains.
Walking the dirty pigeon streets in the angel head husk of dawn
and dusk,
living like smoke.
He injects bad stuff into his veins,
now wherever he goes it rains.
A jolt of 90-volt nirvana sends him skittering into the museum of
his skull
where he watches motion pictures forever
of dog men on invisible leashes walked by giants
transfixed in super death.

Two lovers stare into each other’s eyes and realize the other is not
really there,
and two others fall in love over the dust I left behind.
My love told me a crackling sun means a noisy sunset,
and that when the clouds are wispy,
it means the moon must be boiling.
The all-seeing sky begins to cry with its thousand eyes.
Pock marks damp the dirt.
The zombie’s hands multiply,
and she feels their sensual touch prickling her back.
It had been a terrible fight.
Her blood greased the night.
The dust of rust blows in the wind,
softly blitz, stunned, glitzed.
She looks to me,
then turns to dust.

The sun shoots up above, and beats below the raging waves.
Plucking nerves made of iron wire,
he yells
“I am no man. I am dynamite.”
He rises in mutiny against rigor,
in some kind of rabbit starvation,
some kind of soft-boiled soul cooking dementia…
He sheds his skin and becomes the beast to escape the pains of
being a man,
hungry for a primordial soup that can’t be bought in stores,
best enjoyed ‘neath a full moon.

He split his head open to the universe,
The pain is only the molting of the shell,
the threshold the rupture of an optical membrane.
Utter consumption!
Absolute power!
He sees the horse with its flaming blood,
beyond alive.
In one hand he holds the salvation of the world.
In the other, it’s destruction.
He claps his hands together,
Liquid sunlight and liquid moonlight immiscible in a bottle shaken:
200 proof knowledge.

* * *

The ants that march along the palace wall have a claim:
they’ve seen the inside of the earth
and it has no gears. No one is driving the Earth.
Only the sun whose insides we cannot exploit has gears.
The king hears word.
You arm yourself with philosophy, and learn bushcraft,
spend time surviving the wilderness of America.
Firecrackers in the beard,
feral enough to kill.

Brave and dead,
the prisoner tracks the ant’s path along his cell,
closes his eyes, and sees the cinema.
The cell disappears.
Eyes become long hallways,
warm unstable sausages.
He casts burning glances at the burning city
stringing the lyre all dented with joy.
The ax is ecstatic.
An ax to the computer lights up its display with broken rainbows.
I go on stealing for the moon,
smashing champagne bottles against the ship for good luck.

Take it to the streets.
Get the shit beaten out of you for love.
Cut deft as a butterfly,
its wings slicing starlight,
your dress contorted by the wind.
Envy the skyjacks running to get off the ground and the freedoms
of a burning plane.
Fuck the clock.
The city is an open canvas.

Forget the richness of the painting…
its intoxicating, oversaturated colors.
It’s all distraction. Far more rare is density.
Peel the layers back to see it.
I will tell you a secret:
the real art is on the backside of the paintings,
and if there is no art on the backside, then you absolutely must put
it there,
in a hotel or bathroom.

Inside your body,
mirrorless absolute black.
You are given a box with a smaller box inside it
detailing instructions on handling the larger box.
You are perplexed
so you build a globe.
The dead are so hip and cool.
Nothing can touch them.

In a garden,
the primitives talk
going for the low hanging fruit,
which become the explanations of man.
It tastes like red 40 which stains your insides
& when you die
you have a fantastic rainbow autopsy.

The Neon Primitives play the Explanations of Man on radios for
millennia,
Snake with Legs perfectly preserved in digital amber.
See past! His skeleton as a conman.
You awake in a museum
shiny and gold, shivering,
a walking fossil
metabolized by the regime.

Ants in heaven, humans in hell
Everything in this country is so boring.
No one wants to dance.
Inside earth, ants carve tunnels inscribed
“complete your mission, then die.”

Setting sail in search of new noise,
not drunk;
Possessed by hammered spirits!
Rolling and rude with something precious to hide,
secrets heard by ears not permissible should sound like crimes!

“Be wild, be rabid.”
Having brought
black ice cream and milk
to soothe the savage snake,
the snake hisses:
“You rejected the image,
but you still ate the meat.”

* * *

Psychic infections, witch mania, folie a deux…
Fully automated guerilla technologies scribbled out on napkins
disguised in breadcrumbs.
You find yourself in the presence of
holograms, stage players & self-deluders preparing for the party
but you don’t yet know they are merely images,
parodies made of plastic and light
Televisions— made of millions and millions of little screens,
Fire casting pure shadow,
the only 2-dimensional projection in a 3-dimensional universe,
but your humble prisoner still mistakes it for the real thing.

Wonder eyes equipped with fluid delirium;
Spring is here.
The lyre plays itself.
Rome is still burning.
Everyone is being transformed into rhinos but I resist,
hitching a ride on the coattails of the plague.
You hold the ceremonial vampire fork pulled from behind the
curtain:
Far too frightening a thing to behold in broad daylight.
You perform the toast—
“We hereby honor the heroes
who were the bad conscience of their time.
Furtherers of the human spirit who knew how to party.”

When the noise comes, they begin to dance.
Dangerous black shoes move in every direction at once,
every image a smeared echo of every other
faceless behind floating make up.

With the eyes of a wolf,
hidden beneath my other eyes:
insane unshatterable pseudo mirrors,
I look for chickens,
pupils cracking and blooming,
a single seed striking fear into the hearts of men
as a goddamn tree grows from my face.

A hermetically sealed ascetic knows
the speed of light is most potent in a vacuum.
Watch as the last train home becomes one long steel band,
spooky action at a distance.
Rage and excess,
love and dissent.
Burning giraffes spread wildfire through the city like lawless
candles,
Feral Justice runs on many legs.

You open Pandora’s box simply because you want to look inside,
but all you see is the all hypnotic vision inducing black box.
You see the inputs and outputs, but not the inner workings,
and all around are ghosts only to be seen in the cold
when their bodies condense, made of pure soul sucked breath.
Great distance is a time machine.
The stars are ancient technology moored by sailors and ghosts.

The earth is both a library and the sepulcher.
SnakeDogs deposit messages in burning waste bins,
divining smoke language you can breathe.
It’s the taste of rare perfume.
You discover an ancient computer
used to locate astronomical positions
on a Greek island.
You use it to track the athletic rituals every four years
and center driftwood time.
“How much space is there between each year?” you say.
“That’s the space between the tree rings.”

* * *

A twilight of iguanas
making love on one another’s backs.
Nuptial flowers soft as a deer burst along belly-of-the-snake
highways.
Bee wings are made of amber,
the wind is a sleep of ghosts.
The gentle taste of rarity must be reserved for the rare.
The air is so dense only the rich can afford to breathe it.
Anything dusted in snow can be the moon.

Guided by maps of hands holding hands,
hunting for strangers in the night
to sew her apathetic God a new heart
with bloody seams, or a needle of numb in an angry fix.
It’s snowing in April in your brain,
but the hypnotic winter has since passed
so you go out to the woods,
and if he cuts you the blood is enough to sprout a dozen trees.

Having drank a night of poison,
you awake in a pile of imitations.
A live idol kills his false cows.
Materializations of invisible objects.
Your shaman has a nice ass so you follow them.
You parade a burning phallus in the desert.
40 nights of pleasure,
40 nights of pain.
“In a moment, I am human, in a flash I am dust.”
You adjust your antennae to better receive the transmissions,
farewell.

There are still parts of the moon inside of the Earth.
The moon dust in the earth dirt turns to mud after everything.
The sanctuary is closed for repairs.
In a train with no lights
you leap into the pool.
The sound of the train tracks dissolves into your heartbeat.

We move through the midnight highway drives of sleep,
Contortionists contorting into 2D
escaping or at least pretending we can escape
in flesh heat, fucked up, crushed by trophies
“It won’t hurt after the injection,”
penetration in deep heaven.
She blisters over,
brain made of delicate strands of superfluous moonlight.

The silver spoon of the UFO flies overhead,
quiet engines of the night.
He appears to her a spectral stag in darkened woods,
and she comes to him,
beckoned on the rack of his budding horn,
his body a strange fruit filled with seeds and eggs, his eyes inching.
She shows him all her favorite home movies,
and a National Geographic of 2 earth worms sharing ten hearts,
blind jaws moving perpetually, kissing.

A strange animal that perceives time as one frame—
an overcrowded picture, his brain like a jammed printer
making whirring, grinding sounds.
“What was your life?” he asks
“Was it everything you wanted?”

Tuning autumn leaves to the proper color,
the dirt is all detuned.
How will we ever return?
Sterile mouths speaking sterile language,
breath so soft he was afraid he would wake a specter.
Techno farmer tuning the dirt,
seeding out the wrong signals
through the ridges and rainbows of his many salivations.

The candle of humanity is melting,
You are melting too.
And as you melt your true form is revealed.
As life dies you see the machine beneath the flesh
as with Michelangelo,
his sculpture already contained within the block
waiting to be chiseled.

The sculpted noise of music.
Jagged electric in his veins.
Mashed potatoes for brains.
Deconstructed,
glitz, glitz, he reads her encrypted fingertips
when they trace his skin,
and she says that raindrops are the sweetest mosquitos on her skin,
his skeleton architecturally unsound
so that his head collapses into his stomach.
You can feel your heartbeat,
a stillness like death.

* * *

You’re a time traveler and you are always at the wrong time.
“Have you forgotten who you are,” he asks no longer remembering
the man.
“We met at the grocery store,
Ah yes, you were browsing for meats,
Whole fountains of pureed meat…
The image tastes better than the real thing,
and you are becoming so vapid.
The ghosts say ‘hi’ as they shop for a body.”

The school cafeteria feeds the children lies,
it’s hiding in the mystery meat.
“Come, come,
The future is all you can eat;
carnal fruits and pious vegetables
while the innocent milk curdles into something far more sinister.”

The body returns but the hero does not.
Fog on wheels shrouds this forest.
The kamikaze flower blooms once then dies.
Forgetting the nourishment of
absurdist promises,
he finds a truth with bad intent
better than the invention of a lie.

The fossilized didactics unearthed,
their great skeletons displayed in churches and glass museums.
The GMO hooker stands on the corner
and the great denier sleeps with her,
an almost fluid banana with which he shares 50% of his DNA
having moved through so many crosspollinations.

A man chops protesters in half,
from the stumps of their bodies, trees grow,
their unbroken remains feeding the roots
until the he finds himself engulfed in forests immovable.

Dandelions have taken over the little girl’s brain.
Now she waits for the summer rain.
When they buried her, the flowers spread into the dirt,
and the cancer moved from the body into the fields
where the animals eat their meals.
It took the animals,
and the men who ate the animals, and was spread through the
wind. The children sing insane songs
that fill the hallway with wandering swans.
The little girl floats on,
flowers in her eyes as she walks down the aisle.

He builds the wall that unseals his doom.
Two cockfighting fetuses in a womb come much too soon.
Two squids in coitus appear like hands clasped lovingly,
merging
One beast that looks only to itself.
One beast that worships only within.
Anyone who follows him he kills.

Blood serf arises from limbs of carnage,
hair full of smoke, eyes soft as cancer
headed back into the mountains,
covered in feudal samurai slaughter.
“I have the answer.
I know how to stop the machine.
Make it stutter!
Throw a wrench in its gears.
Obedience and order are smooth.
Stuttering is the language of resistance!”

Having reached a proper delineated understanding
the seer proceeds to shove his head in coal,
scrubbing his eyes clean of vision like lucid dynamite.
Wisdom is moronic lightning!
The dead pixels of black flies plastered to his digital eyes,
lightning headaches skull fuck his brain to butter.
The cadaver’s bride is in love with the snake,
the slave obeys the cake.
A two headed snake leaves no loose ends,
the camel spits on its masters grave and the meaning is lost.
He swallows the kill pill.

* * *

Take hold,
the knife is blood thirsty again
He staggers
Gravity’s drunk
The gears inside his brain are spinning
The acid is wearing off
harbinger of death
The children are being fed through the meat grinder for gold
All unliberated, blind semen leaking from their eyes
He looks up to find the music irreparable
“Stop the machine,” he says
“Stop the machine”
“The saintly bard is lost to a dream
Stop the machine”
It echoes off the concrete and debris
Stop the machine
No rest, sleepless scenery in the ceaseless night
The lights are full of ecstasy
Flash, flash
He hears the bells of death that near
The stars a million tears
The wolves crowd closer
Stop the machine
Stop the machine
Stop the machine