I have never tasted the world.
With skin, I cannot live as a man
in a city simulation.
Before it rains the landscape
sober despite action.
I did not walk across
the surface of awareness
. Pure angst that it is.
Imagine happiness like held thunder.
When something is new
its artificial language displaces the
characteristics of the innovation.
But I’ve prayed for the earth
to dissolve as a drug on
my tongue. And extend
a bridge between truth
and this movement.
The blood stands in the way
like a mural of total redness.
I’ve never tasted the world.
With this skin that can only mirror susurrations.
Husk of Art
Hang the veins of wings
Hurry through the vast futilities
Heights and heroes
Home in the plateau of chaos
Human Ocean of Being
Happiness as the mistake of ages
He and she and the mirror of passion
Hairy monster of tiny desires
Haunted origin of cloud
Hopelessly entangled in the
Horrible symptoms of my
To be a bed
where two flies procreate
a scoop of nailed flight
to be a hiding of swirls
and heavy wax hairs
alpine view here with the roar of a minute
to be born of sperm and fact
trapped between two breasts of dirty fruit
feeding from black poisonous miracles
to be fallacies of waste
to have animals over you scavenge for dumb teeth
to be a gulf of chewed respirations
aging dawn of wings
crashing against oceanic mirrors
to be a bed of cactus
where virgins report to god
and sacrifice their blood to color
the brick walls of love
to be all the circles of anatomy
but not the equations of multitudes
the guilty resin of interpenetration
to be a savant sleeping under
hoards of cannibalistic dreams.