RERITES

February 2018

(awd-py36) jhave@jhave-Ubuntu:~/Documents/Github/awd-lstm-lm-master$ python generate_INFINITE_RANDOM-SEED_mintmax_tUSERctrl_Feb3-2018.py --cuda --words=1111 --checkpoint="models/SUBEST4+JACKET2+LYRICS_QRNN-PBT_Dec11_FineTune+Pointer.pt" --model=QRNN --data='data/dec_rerites_SUBEST4+JACKET2+LYRICS' --mint=0.75 --maxt=1

Averaged Stochastic Gradient Descent

with Weight Dropped QRNN

Poetry Generation

Trained on 197,923 lines of poetry & pop lyrics.

Library: PyTorch

Mode: QRNN

Embedding size: 400

Hidden Layers: 1550

Batch size: 20

Epoch: 478

Loss: 3.62

Perplexity: 37.16

Temperature range: 0.75 to 1.0

After Living All Day Beneath God Without A Name

you touch

something

behind

my body

shining

like

a star

we begin

living

as gods

without

any names

Every Time You Come Around We Talk About It All Night

as you wrap

your wet hair

I break down

prey preys

on  itself

For You in the Bedside Brook: A Requiem

peeling some calamity

coughing exposed sinew

lost and dead

under the sun

I Wrote The Names Of Innocence

deplorable

contenders

for an apocalyptic

sextalk folksonomy

gene & dens

antecedents

rifted probationary

emergencies smashed

Delicate Wispy Nelson, Who Would Die At Ten

in a headlock, spewing smoke onto sacked streets,

swirling repertoires  tearing life-worm hawk-eye

heart-like hair  into hard-cornered glass-spores

We Trend

Along the liked route, talking

about the satori emptying us

Cold rainy shores

insisting on a real

beta launch

for nirvana

And when we were sleeping with shunyata

in the final selfless mountains

When the last of

our networked pleasure

drained the server's breath

Emptiness designed

a beige road

for banal vigilance

Decaying photons

delayed protons,

software in the bare

coded kernel heart.

Ruined House Waters

morning flowers

decide how we scar

a trickle of stars

smiling

it's time to move the sun

out of the sea

hear the dark

flowing light

babble things

into time

delete the wordless

photos

thinking of death

abandoned & alone

Shark 689,003 Dies

As if a fucking

omnipotent     rigid bird

in a wildness      of sky

entangled      in the net

of peace strangled itself

Or the pear

tree at midday

carved the binary

indolence ruins

into safety-pinned

coffins.

Existence seeds clouds

to palpitate over porn.

Emptying meaning's bread.

Draw Each Tear on Shuttered Windows, Dropping Some

collapse

husked Tate

junkware v.1

into reverse

quantization_channels

swerve-fluent

gif-dream

worm-hole

dot-product

emptiness

making truth

dance the ocean

print the leaking

crown on my skull

Permanent Instrumental Cuts

A baby wren came to perch on my fingers.

My bones were all faintly exuding light.

There were neither images nor mountains,

standing among the waves

imagining homes.

Only the heat of flowers ruined in snow.

A roof, fallen from the weight of stars.

Spermatozoa, smiling at songs.

Quick robots contemplating ice.

Waste Day

We constructed a documentary of restraint

critic tumors,  precious things,  burning

Crossing the weyapukshouse, shusaku inlet:

i couldn't see those friends

writing with feathers, my best friends

strained now,

stammering with uneasiness.

Instead, there was only a little

lung,   tossing phlegm fish

on the wind    like laundry

Clean Movement

The grass of hope

reminds heart of escape,

makes mind think of pleasure,

which is no more strange

than a jealous fire

rising from the body

Body is full of love

and old woe; heart

of the wide way.

Now when mother talks to daughter

they forgive their masks.

They peel cost,

and silence the numb notes.

They who have written

quiet simple words,

remember the light

and what it means.

A Pristine Stigmata

Our ancestors sharpened

Stones for their dreams.

Something capable of

killing, glistening.

A delirium of all-gain,

empty-handed, well-fed

penance-clay lamentations.

Thorn heart

refined, wise

and breathless.

A floating limb

carved into fear.

The Economic Beauty of This Bottom Stream

Virginal blockchain narratives with

pithy phong-waves wake

a warm piss-spot dream

of instant eternal cash.

Chagall's pink cow

munches on a bramble

stoic in the gutter.

Ponderous, noncommittal

mesmerized online protest

becomes endless foreplay.

Casinos and minnows.

Old Perfection

slaughter   turned the bed

inside-out filled the dark

the edge          of human

fearless       equilibrium

computer   plastic

soul                 brand

languid  ideas

lonely  jeers

A Promising Conception

I know that death is writing

a flower which is nothing.

I know that nothing is a book,

a tongue inscribed with gold

moss burning in the throat.

I read that book

that is a mountain

growling with memories,

an autumn of oaks.

I smoke a futurist poem,

ashed to 6.6% utterance.

Abrasive, resolved and dissolute,

I nourish the meager

soil of a secret light.

The Mist Of A Perfect Sound Holds Simple Psychosis

a siren sings

to a clique

of suspended coal

and demobilized tumors

fresh   supple

resins  fragrant

grating  ecstasy

coagulate

foetal-crouched

infertile

postsynaptic

Consuming Enlightenment With Consumed Enlightenment

A very bright grove emits bright birds.

Seeping desirable absence.

Fracturing ice.

The night is a calm garden

in the eye of a dark room.

Time is a forest

laughing at the sky.

Cracked soil

spits cracks.

Ground Begins

Now my father plays

with broken smoke,

a sagging enhancement

dug out of bloody media

The wide flood of this revolution

peels transparent breath.

Beginnings clad in silence,

blind, locked in self-consuming

rites,  enchantments of precision,

cruel & fearless, hissing & fragrant

A Thousand Year Landslide

imagination's answers

protect erasure

dreams leak

from the sky's throat

hang-gliding daylit

idioms, dewsoaked

in restless laws

a built-in clinging

stumbles into a desiccated house

and is measured, huddling in agitation

touch is dead

endurance ordained

crunchable gestation-mucus

stained with missionary flux

All The Heart's Advertisements

fffffartsy anguish

21st century lifetime data

coding wunder checkout

a concept of damage which

thrives from 1955 to 1997

a comical hirsute storebound

wireless delicate conception

a simple essence of home

txt isp cryptocurrency haptic

story-book nourishing networks

Inextricable Pleasure Incinerates Calm

i want to write 747 poems

on really gawky themes

like sex/drugs

hedonic routines that permit

styles to embody statements

the czechs have a word for this:

they call it txt baseborn, or glop

they lift the sun and carry it

to where they need it; they

adjust non-acquiescent fact.

Acid Heaving Gravity

Rain, raging, blind

whispers in reverie

contemptuous gulls

tumbling overhead

the air is filled with fumes

thrown from beyond ohio

A child hears her nerves erode.

Artists Salving The Machine-Chosen Minimum

Wage work in biomolecular +3.6% plexiglas.

User-predicted rhizomes, erasable and baited

sentiment-obscured brain-churning ooo-nanosynapses.

Photonic circuits.

Microbial obstacle confusion.

$400 of drowsy beaded meat.

I Can't Not Be My Voice

the way we radiantly kissed

the swamp      the way we outraged

the swallows

the endlessness     of the night

and everywhere condemned, an

untrodden path

hidden beneath moonlight

young birds disappearing

into the core dead

plumage rainbow circuit

milky sweet consciousness

in an empty bed

the plummet androgynous

never-quite-clean commuting

of nature's tale

Satisfied The Heart Makes Rain

the walls of the world are not     the voice of the earth

my hands are not       warm trees

a reticent heart is not                   an eye

To Speak For Love With Hungry Blood

In the middle of the night

you and i

are without heaven

we blend

walking in the grass

under the brightness

of blue

the flesh of the pores a pond,

a silent twist of stone dreaming

the heart's bell, naked

in a land of empty stars

quiet

becomes a

broken shudder

Clickbait Concertina

I txt the child

a memo

A religious feeling

germinating

a suburb

A voice wound

Why You Must Not Tumult For The Tender Song

critical i am a commander

in vastness listening

to an influx of order

become money

forming the target

monoamine ploughed

an ironic darkness

haliototic time's

blinking charity

in which a sublunar

grief apostrophizes

the périphérique

cages in a perfect feast

swimming inside shadow

wisdom touches its scrotum

wrinkles a remembrance of time

Silence Is Love

And light is a dream

And an open sky

And, in this sky, wind

And in the dark, words never flow

And everything is lost

And an old sound now in a little room

And the rain singing

And dust in a sealed saturated throat

And a vast theory, lamenting dead speech

And dead children flinging the dark air

And sex squalls

And a dreaming heart full with song

And the void suddenly thinking

Nothing Is Love

The Softness Of A Timid Shadow

We are born tasted

to hold the heart

of the body

Deep in the future

sound of a bed

Pure salt wind

living signs

of the ashes

Silhouettes on a dry lawn

where the ecstasy

of a rainbow waits

in the shadow of a tree

Egg's Demise

Evil rubbing plum berries

over the crotch of orchids.

Buying power, porn

kiss right-click.

Visceral oil,

oiling vomit.

The rat blood of god:

an auger.

Seriously tall lawn-sculptures,

stretched to maximum speed

by the fullness of wallet.

Gimmee Some Cash

our violence evolved

a system for driving

the wave

salt and mortal flame

dark as the eye

of a glass dollar

wind becomes cold

knows words

that are nothing

A Feeling That Is Not A Dream

I see the song

i am not born to be

save the sky

i am the only one who makes

the other dream

as i was dying i was born

i watch the seed of the sea, a secret

rainbow in a puddle of narrow dust,

a wind bright as a river dreaming

a cold wall of dismal slang

i am thinking  i am not dreaming

i like dying in the night as a flower

Equivocal Impossible Hope

sudden weighted

braid of cherubs

a sun underneath

pinioned dead narcissine

a broken grave

in the stillness

of a dream

far away, beneath

a ruthless lake

glittering with regrets

breathing phenomena

but remembering

revelations

an abandoned inauthenticity

By Means Of Tumescent Water

Ev'rybody's suffering wondering where

these expectations make written

syndrome clues

to clarify the cold dark gossiping

signed maki trash-pile discarded reality

dvds and floodlights

of the heart’s energy,

and the solitary hope of heliotropes

catching light between light

Angel Powder

Fucked off.

Insouciant, dying watching.

Lonely is the question. Nothing.

The trauma structures of return.

Pigments placed on scattered grimy

Patterns by unresolved mute strategies.

A car full of wombs

Entanglement seed-time languor duets.

Genre Bet Night

A ravine in the mouth.

A meta-genre merger of power and “if”.

Two abysms thinking a tiny question.

Outside, it smells of dew.

To Everlasting Learning

the houses in my crotch

are immortality strobes

stars the groined orbit

spear my body on

bees humping language

a coy narrative

a weedy frozen

enumerated beast

blindness as a way

of blossoming

among the unfortunate

moments shines love

Stamen Pity Confervoid Echo Linger Secession

selfhoods

reproduced by sudden mist:

like grim zen austere dawns come

unmaimed to forget.

nymphs, irrevocable, nervous

reset-to-factory-default

concretize fountains

shoveling torment

fields are grouped together,

scrotum, hook and hangovers

humped with crow rockets

coming opened from caves,

where war slimmers

Oblivion Poems

shrieking in the imbalanced commitment

that new living gunpowder played in the shape

of beach cortisol instinct

Birds nervously vomitting gentleness.

and each afternoon

the only thing in the wrong

is the shoreless desert flowers

Slaughtered History Forgets Our Health

the secret of all songs

needs an unbearable dead world

You Smoke The Keen

There is a decisive churn of swans on the tv

and the clock lips settle full on

the calling and laugh and are just

one flux of shapes rising to say you

want to die, for it is

the sea that's playing you,

not fears and banality but

dead gin and a radiance of paths,

a trademarked honey-suckle

wheel floating within a musk

of caulked expensive

breadcrumb bureaucracy

consuming enlightened

volcanic archived pleasure

from a yearning page.

Stars & Rags

All memory emits an odor of genes.

Gently into a pale green sky. The

automated petroglyph

remembers greeting you.

Whims and hardware, the superpunk

Voice released inside your tongue.

Comes back.

Humbled.

Intelligence Has Begun To Gland

Ecosystem prisons,

dewsoaked in culture,

Study archetype's bellybutton hair.

How throat-cockroach brain-play

delivers takeout-box arousal.

How futile global processes

in a canopy of lonely lust, blur.

A Blanket Breathing On The Ground Over A Secret

I do not think of skeins

Of summer born. Nor a green spoon of green

wolves where your body

Rises on somebody's face, toward the moment

Held staring in the grass as a metaphor for decay or

a fuse.

Private tumblr bikini, the delicate pictures,

Very silent, dreaming the ground.

Sometimes sight is wet.

And somebody will point toward

jello asleep in the library. Across

a curving canal

of monotonous lonely rye.

Soot fills that thorn.

Taking On Cosmic Light

1.

decay the primal green

transitions into layers: self-help cortex

and wee years finally on the peak, flinging

paradises' rut plasma, raving

plums

2.

ooh the way the sea, so much as it is,

hears nobody, just exists, and

the sands open

a cool flower

that flows under

cracks in the sounds of the blue sun

3.

i am thinking about an angel

lost in an empty time, of a

god dying in a deep lake of rain with

a rose that

weeps in a puddle

Quiet Happens

from an archive of whispers

and the abandoned house is

a hole in a lily red river

and the rain is

a voice inside an animal

a dream of a dream

of light in the heart

a flag in the sky

planted by a machine

a tree under my skin

a tree in the heart

the sun is the sun

that is what we have

a fool forever held

in the light of the night

the last singing of an animal

carried thru a cold summer

A Range Of Roots

the rain that night put the sun to sleep in the trees

the wind was a heart in the dark

the night was a broken question thinking of the sea

a seed at dawn crossing the heart

a kind of stone where the world is torn

i am not the one

dancing the sun

thru thought

i wake up in the night and the sun is dead

An Open Truth

Light “guides” the sounds

to a depth isolated

in the drowning home.

All the children die

incomplete in pain.

They confirm a horizon

of uniform frost.

A pulse of discursive vastness,

a gesture of law

asleep in letters.

Lubricity spun

as if imagining.

A Distant Bee Forbids An Eternal Grave

drink its dim broken self

among the pale furniture of midsummer

sing of pink sky-burial, all holes,

a smudge of peer-reviewed skeletons

strain, each nervous architecture,

hide the person who will be

pray for little tasks to celebrate

crucial luminous rusty assurances

slip into the sand,  flurry churning

dislodged light, rolling lilith

one sapling keen sharp bulge of

thin flesh, a long mouth, then amber

gutters in char convention

lazily on the simulated 3d

To Seem Everywhere

if there is a secret

it isn't that i know it

even the eyed laws comeblind

to the rim of the nevermind

shed in the swamp war

prefrontal bathroom

morning starts to reach into everything

it says it is all that everybody needs

anywhere there is more than nothing

something craves to be jealous, a tiger

alive, and no one

installing the disarray

looks at the music

telling us to come home

The Last Drama

my mother blew

a soldier to get

the moon

a bowl of skin

a wound slouch

pith potential

capillary readme

a dry scattered

funeral for wry water

gossip-sick fire

a desiccated kiss

concentrated facebook trickle of

focused infinite secluded hearts

pain, waves of pain

standing in a crib of language

in the bones of the future

in a dark mouth of naked rain

A Chair and A Rag

Perched on the syntax of dawn

a dead language kicks at time

Concussion Colour

the sky is a new green

valley singing hard

hungry tenuous sleep

warm blue rain blood

a flame within a rock

an old photograph of the sun

a tear of love, melancholy

body of molten roses

shining in the dark

i am the flesh of the sea as it walks

a dead river in the morning dreaming light

Outside Is The One I Love

fleshing

stung with milk

i love you all

as long as you are yes

no one else is loving you

in the first beautiful lost star

clouds watch a hole in your dreams

solace tracing uncertainty

lamenting well-fed penance

shit you'll smell

when the truth's

within range

Cleaning The Cerulean Source

as we sit with

the stone tree

and talk

in the rain

a mute wind

grinds breath

to fill

our voices

and as we stroll

thru the stench

of deodorized

facts

hope rusts authorship

saves leisure

from the ear

young pain glowing

in a window's nest

a forgotten array

imagined passions

Cheetah Citizenry

Clacking,

remote threnody,

stasis irony

sound omnipotent

scrolls. I am

love's

immobility

the meaningless

porn cone,

river pent,

parachuted moon

bald in the sun with cool

peaks of hardwood perceptions

flaring

in mammalian

doubting honey

tongues mass

supple petals

landing tenuous goals

transporting the mouth-like

needle itself, breathing

toward the end. And juices

rise and the sea

is giving things

to my heart.

To One So Happy with Exquisite Breaking

We sat with vigor and certainty

Feeling precious

Still as the future sunrise

Trusting free direction

Love is a postcard sent

By a contagious wind

On its breath we are stars born from mountains,

And sweetness is nothing but the motion of stars

Our dreams wake walls,

And the walls are another dream

in which necessity doubles

Like Sun In The Blood

too often love is a river

a breath of words that bloom

in a naked row of bright ears

an oak light whim silence calling

your name into a corner

and so destiny is the body of a song

the grain of your skin embedded in broken haste

a muddy twilight twisted gray path

that floats where sirens are sequestered

in a photo of the pain of nothing,

plague beautiful, child

and light, fused

this desk watches father weep;

dead gestures, shelterless,

thoughts within thoughts

and rooting in the fury of light

it will surely take his chair

become the narrative

a reptile rapture that

jolts when it speaks

atonement's peeling pyrite

Counting the Shapes Of My Life

Let love sing the blood of the soul

And dance the sea of the streets

Feelings not made for fools; digressions gathered

From blood woods in the void of a sun

In the quiet of a most beautiful universe

A locked mirror beneath the window filled

With wings eating the rain and

The dark light containing 3 dreams

Flowing under the mountain's bones

In the dust among delicate twigs

Deconstructing the disaligned

Cushions of the dreary morning

The music's hidden   awakening

Whispering of hope

Sing This Moment To Rise Consented

To be that place up at the end of the mountain

a curl of vapour

a love infection

a silent message

a mumbled theory

Although the day finds the sun food, nothing moves

its outer puppets, the saint asleep in its chest,

or the amoureuse climax of rain rolling love-root

remote handmade clouds and machine-payable senses.

Entamed, a now, waits

on lawns where longing is shut into talk,

embroidered motherfuckin sentience barfing

copious semantic nuggets.

Under a parametric dome, 7,097 languages caulk civilisations

and glide with love thru dirty great meaning's caution

to unilaterally celebrate control with the swamp voice.

Friend Batter

Out comes the oil eye, which stares, perched in a

nest of light shining with frost.

And it flows like a branded child and

makes me see lovely gray blood burning on the hill.

I see worms break into winding scars,

and gnarled glass in a cloud.

A cold song in a dark monstrous grove of mold,

an empty moon flecked with swans.

And a reflection of the heart's gristle

thinking the things of this world, moving.

After the rain in the wings of the mind, when

i am a broken leaf in the corner of your eye.

A river in the air that the future makes, two people

in a green box, a mirror in a stone.

I am waiting to be lived by wind.

I Am The Nothing You Believe In & A Sea Of Invisible Love

I am the shadows walking in the sand

the dreams of the dead world

A litter of perfume falling into the sea

a pawn in a tree where the

Clouds die of light singing isolation

acetylene beautiful.

A place reflecting a memory that cannot hide,

a suspended penetration.

Dark sounds as the sky fills night

with the living dead light.

The short game of peace

like a house alone.

Eureka Whirling Mildew

We sit in the dry dirt of home and

memorize rapture

On chairs that get crushed

when stories are never forgotten

Like them, born, we meet

beliefs where mountains grow

A burden of bones and mournful informality,

drunken, undulating and pollinated.

Empty Bramble Wept Sweat

God in a g-string, less than

an unthinkable metaphor.

One phrase uneasily watching

dissonance pleasure itself.

A Venus lamé baby river.

Fragrant waves crafted from flesh.

Inverse bone of a disease, cracked,

rough gleaming and precise.

Your soul drowned within the sun.

A flock of signs sprouting in a hot grove

of scalding blue hands.

Loss -- wonderful -- sometimes, a scent

intuited by caressed hair.

The phantom of the sacred, a corrupt

and riot-naked distrust pulse:

Brine morbid coiling stars where salty

flecked whales grieve wise swabbed veils.

A Voice Comes To The Window

It talks of a prisoner-scented tub. The grass

and the sheets. The glass ghosts. None

Of the developed journey's gutter,

tactile chlorophyll acceptance of sky.

Cleaning the valley of our house, its slanting leaves

rolling to taste waves, make light

play at living. Skirting

The shadow of a rose truck song burying the stones

that laugh

Publishing dreams of nothing, ancestral seismology

reuniting clenching terrain.

Stadiums of the osprey's prism: -ity and vs.

sacrifices remembered as direction.

A destruction, elected and sold, rife in shallows, a

throat grid of full consciousness.

Me — I See A Bird

Away for seven years from home,

she became a blue tree.

Lost, bent and breathing,

inside the sea.

She was half milk, enduring

the electric eye.

A frown of water in the throat. Urges

eligible for scurrying.

Bellies filled with bottles

of granite gender? Wrack

-- from within rotating ekphrasis. A sweet-smelling

cinnamon snowfield soaking fingers in smoke.

#now

We’re buried in our awful, she said,

so strong & young, with the sheep, fluttering

like rocks on a leash

behind a tinge of delight in the breath.

She is found wound up

crying preserved moments.

A replacement hour

transgressing natural mortality.

In her a molten imagination

speaks to sky's breast.

Orange looping calm lariat anaconda bubbles

track keel wings

& know how wind

used to move

within water.

Watching A Widow Eat A Shadow

A trick of cold light

where the dead

paint fading forms

within wind.

In the veins

of the night

summer

is an old fire.

A lonely house

spoken by a secret river

with a tongue of sky.

The sun

unfurling

calmly in a puddle.

The stones

inside a blue girl

wearing the scent of death.

A dream of a dream

in the dirt.

A sort of loneliness

in the sky

where rain

escapes silence

and bleeds.

I Am A Master of The Night Heart Zoo Exhibition

Omnipotence blooms, pickle sauce

a whole certain

heart future

in the eye of a river

the thought

of owls

cuts the heart

i am utterly animal

the whole thing

i am a hill

in the first

breath of air

in the ground

illusion stands

weeping

One is one with the light

that makes the world

a day so deep the night

is in the wind and all

the heart is a grave

a place that is

no dream

sick nothing

no matter

buried in the head

of a love flying

i am a child

empty and blind and still

a room born

dead and alone

like a stream

of blue light

in a stone

i am a lawn

lying in a poem

a land

of calm dreams

Love Makes A Secret Pain

loneliness crushing loneliness i am not

felt: god is a sagging grove of flowers

cramped dancing beneath a massive willow

who is a muse of listening

to hide your shadow

i climb the total

peak void

of all mountains

i believe in the mind and see

the shape of tender beauty

in each instant abyss

i believe in a dream

where the ridge flood light

falls in my face

drifting dolphins

faithful to a hidden angel

have already soaked the flock

and the dead indigent vultures

remember insane vague meditations

merely thinking about your body

waterproofs a clear floating darkness.

Carving A Lustreless Literal And Sad Ditch

i am sitting with you in

a crack of your soul

eating words

that will not wake you

i say this: that there is

a little tree in your heart

in the darkness of your eyes:

an oak sky covered with fog

you're in orbit

around a muse

saturated in desiccated

light

you are the first dog

that whispers to the house

a beautiful wind combs

the bright hair of your ocean

The House Of A Small Soft Bird

i am the one that is

the light

the night

pain of a sun      a breath

caught in a human heart

a dream of

a squat, stone hill

shuffling to the sea to dance      sinewy

and green

a huddling improvisation

as sexy as sorrow

where the morning's pale flower

makes love's brain

my body is the sun

and the rain comes

the world is so naked

it is the heart of the dead

Keyboardinterrupt

foreword begging

the sunburned car

for calm garbage

a bright deluxe gush

felt

roving punk permutation

combat on s.m. kinetic

traverse jeans, caress

bra-strap marxist

noble truths

of the wind

a universe 00

with menopausal wolf

oblivion cartoons

milkweed peaceful

midsummer swollen

love's bland

drifting cold

software

rainbow

garrison

Shadows Claim The Salt Song of Gravity’s Wounds

Times is a lamp

its pulp

lemon queries

ripen waves of life

on whose stray dense grass

the erroneous moss of action

descends into the morning

at quiet intervals

revealing a battering

of bloody icons, and the fence

by the freeway

To live is to inhabit

a cage dreaming of barnacles

a solicitous inconsequential

50-50

You see true when young,

there are only a few bubbles

in the coffee

The elegant angry plastic star

of crunchable difference

freckling sages with nostalgia

suggests a mirror on a highway

where the engraved mountains

flutter unleavened and fight

A gift in which no seagulls,

sport souls, or breast mimesis

(and its dollar-a-rack

air of cold celebration)

nimbly befriends orphans

Sipping consciousness

Stones Comprehend The Rain

In new york city,

a cook named billy

transformed fire

into dew

the dew at that pointed pooled

& burned out all the city windows

its flames breeding

and at the same time, leaving

a bland quiet wetting

it was not trying to think of

a bright bird left in the blood

nor was it cognizing a garden at night

when wind tunes a golden tongue

and its horizon was an open thing

hung on slander's brow, incomprehensible

a contingent memory

of contingent memory

hmmmmm, more dew

meant

barrenness submerged

within the scent of clouds

another silent continent

of breast-bone-bots

meat-links, puzzling cavities,

work-cot water-jets.

flash wet peyote sizzle

keen romantic sweat dew

A Body Makes The Sun A Body Of The Sun

a river touches another river

for a moment letting stars

think of other stars

the death

of love

loves to

think of

death

and money issues more money

blind sees blind

dawns dawn

Cerebellum Re-cap

the light is something

that has caught your love

in the shade of a tree

on this perfect afternoon

the light is the way

every hand shelters

and cares for breath

or spreads a sex blanket

within the mouth of an exit pain

the light is mind

jewellery fluttering

pills huddling in sacks

light blinks

at the words

where muses break

light in the slaughterhouse

lights father mother and child

sheathed crowded gasping

aware

the light is waiting

for bargain-basement

debates about transcendence

to morph into care

the light is

our blood

An Arbitrary Audiovisual Performance In Which Fantastic Architecture Appears

I love the smell of love

I love how the stars live

in the sweet ground

I am a holy chair in the garden

I am a field of flowers

We Are The Last Towers Of Chemical Dust

a wide rain descends

from an old cry of the sun

tired of the idea that

is the lost breeze

and then the windows burn

the rough pretext of solitary claws

floating thru me/you/i

to grow wheat in the swamp

a scent of destiny in

a touch enslaved;

a self-poised hysteria-innocent

swan on honey

a red retrospective

acrid sculpture

of underground bones

re-finding life

gleaning a fist from a wing,

untuning mythologies

re-sending forgiveness

escape to silence      there

is no one at the right place;

a honeycomb tightens the dark

mouth of the sea

You're Killing Me

And the young girl noticed

in the darkness

a menopausal book

a dry dead sea

where a cold wind burned

Puddles among sagging grass

a leaking

twilight yelling

naked mud

Her Head Goes Home To The Low-Lit Room in the Heart

a goddess pried

from the field's

clear flesh

a lop-sided

rainbow feast

in her mouth

willow-coloured water

subjection hides

what can never heal

a sweet scar

that is self

The Body Of The Body Is Dead

salience

extended new breath

up to a drunken wounded

ruby womb filling a certain tense

question divided by the cracked truth

rolling against gratified electroencephalograph

exhaustion, imponderable soft proteins, massive sweats

of fog and belljar dinosaurs, transient natural purities

that become trace retributions, demonstrating confined

synaesthesia, a cloven lamentation undersea

enslaving all time to a sensory alcatraz

Cryonics, Gene Choreographed, Early In The Morning

they stroll out

with their bombs

to open battered

compassion's jaw

publish in the pebble

a honey of the spirit

a boring swarm

of humming

apprentice

cannibals

a brain-computer

rope-monologue

of unanswerable

immortal contamination

We Cannot Be Directions From The Past

I remember the people there in the night,

by your house shining above the bright waters,

hurrying within their bridles of longing.

And the darkness

which finally became the mist of routine,

its petals of no good money,

a biochemical oregon, a dream.

I never asked you

to see the first words i found,

the lengths I had gone to forget.

In a very thin fern,

the leaf is tight with restraint.

Now my eyes are pleased with the deer

woven into your flesh by unskilled nightingales.

Equators spinning, you tend yourself,

and the sun riots, watching the horizon.

A Muted Peaceful Alarm

All night, bankrupt dancers

birth my love chord

Holding a tongue to my belly

they lake like an aria,

a flock of humans walking

into a toiletbowl.

They speak for hyphens,

bully themselves unconsolably,

Sewing doors of water, washed

and sanctioned without sound.

And We Rot All Through The Bare Debris

a favored rhythm in beta

days of the day

mountains mountains

deserted in the desert

sin and i

form a rock

of young love

a wax loop

illumination

in the throat

of the heart

of the night

a precocious figure of sludge

from the meadow dimestore bed

bread reading the book

of love, a moment's voice

so huge and silent, a new song

dead at the edge of the dark

Her Dream Was Earth

a garden burns

in the brain

a secret

feeling

technology

a whisper

that thinks

the day is

a body

in the sun

all the dead

wet mud

a tongue tree

broken sky

the heart

a quiet wave

The Night Ocean

My prodigal grandfather's grandfather's

bones were bright hand-kerchief-sized

dirt pearled yarns

Whirring prelate facts in a limbo sparrow-flock

swarm morbid catalytic

bandana endurance nothingness

Dust burned in his heart where an antique

salve adorned with tired

wishes worried blindness

Thug-soup, mute unachieving,

unmoored, meaningfully

misunderstood his wave

A Civilized Mind

within hope is a cage in which lipids eat

a fooled universe, the foam, quiet and square

where sweet mirrors kiss a whorehouse of blood laws

and stories stutter names that dissolve into possibilities,

deeplinking hewn avant/garde perverse bonuses at prestigious borders

scented with observations, living in terror of logical & negligent tumors

A Fabulous Boundary

Butterfly in the ebbtide

scavenger of difficult space

a heart poured into flesh.

From the harvest of the divine

your wild pulsings of lyric pain are born.

You feast on the lost sight of a little union.

You curse your spirit's explanation: a fearful smile

and shaking priest's pride fill your skin.

And your life is not lean in the garden, a single light,

tonight's hunter taking the sky to the east.

You drive the center of the desert

wallowing in your furious self,

running your fingers over the rock

you took from love.

By The Sight Of My Heart Colors

i am not the pure names of life

complicated in an exaggerated brochure

tensor seed stocks and viral miners

sweeping parlor's low fog

a semi koolaid diamond

eclipse filtering aggression

kneeling, tongue on

tongue, come to praise

god-fracturing meadowgrass

arterial birds, weeping space

an abyss infected with ambiguous endorphins,

death's sagittal view of imagination's slum

Disability Transforms My Ravaged Vision

After a few of

my half-forgotten

sentences disembowel

a chimpanzee. I, aghast,

caress, intoxicated, divine

blue-green extinction alchemy.

Rage Reminds Me Of The Spring

filth meat

grafted to

flaw cradle:

sweating lichen

smelling truth

prehistoric boredom's

porn armour shoutout!

Swelling Deletions

under the neck of defeated rains, invariant

wrapped furniture, astray coiled,

relational flesh, pretended to soothe

shivering words, and cellophane love

spun out zen cries

Millennial Free Administrator

Artifice invests her into being,

brutalized by events to improve

the roost that pulls the seed.

Yet there is no shortage of trying. And

there is also a prevalence of truth –– even as

conscience sings a sigh of sorts, and

accumulates blindness on a lined path.

A hot and tough looking outrage

circles the place where nothing

predicts the end of the universe.

Spider mascara stubbornness

venom looks out the window.

Death Is A Child Singing For An Hour

We live

In a puddle

Of sun

God is an empty nest

in a wide colonial tree

The endless sound of the quiet

And bitter pain of the world reads

Clouds that flits over

An open lake of blood

The dark light of the wind

Rolls on the sea, and

Fire is born

A child cuts a handful of flesh

To make a soul see

I am a heart in that garden

In a universe of crystal bright water

where a great world rock sings

The light

Places in mind

The stone of this poem

i Bore A Dream Wrapped In Recent Skies

Commotion. Sun-silt, Ilyich is dead.

And i am sad. Clinging, close smeared

On the surface of a frozen spring,

An abandoned storm. Air snarling

Idly beyond the holographic bridge

Yawning and sweating hydrogen

Grains of language.

Veins moist from the olives, i

Am not like the sound of pain on the field or

The children and woman who ignore the grass in

A green house. Their flesh crying a sign of beauty,

Something i miscomprehend as a bird flying through

A ground of misfortunes. A twisted coffin. A palsied

Word. In random eyes, the office camera captures

An enigma of starving petals.

Of Life Like Ashes

Admiring, we bench-press

the crab's profaned

Jittery innards. Unreeled

in a food metempsychosis,

Naked barnstorming

a portrait of illness.

A little

Sticky climax. Upset,

over ancient predatory fields.

Entamed, while you, and your immune lips,

wait to weave

A withered singing into fruit.

Interviewed. On the beach,

the breath of a chandelier.

A protracted sale! Babylon:

that crow quivering in

A cul-de-sac, as always, until

what we care about changes.

Evening, we see smells

of talking. Potatoes filled with

Fish. Sweet cavities

in the hour's bowl

Of sweet knowledge. The grim common

grin of a fatal angel.

I Set My Hands Around A Bramble

Latté: someone is bargaining

for the proper procedure

of a broken mirror.

Words nestling in the moist

impetuousness of the day.

A porn race,

offering elevators.

Whatever I think in my head

is blah: i know what i am.

i live slandered and rife,

ordered and judged.

I am the answer thats wants the stars

To purchase the flowers of thoughts.

I dream you told me

That on the first day

The sound of money

Enraged graves.

Eden is on sale

In a corner

Of my mind.

And a dead body

Opens to see me.

The Great Taste Of One

i wanna know where i am living

i wanna die

on the surface of the heart

a wound in a voice

one hears within a rock

to enter

the morning

as fire

to love

to sing

to think

in the place

of making

Origin Call

Rebate the 0%. Give them

Molecular fate; let them

birth immortal bots.

Loophole degradations until luxury

Peels an implacable crying mud.

I Am Sick

Here's the routine of celibacy: an omen solitude in which

The bomb prays for the last bridge, in which the morning

Comes for the hill with the fruit of the day in a book.

The Crusted Sand

i am a dream in the

soul of a dead man

DNA scuffed ledges

where lamb implications

redeem an archipelago

of mirage culture

i am a vision of a box of water

my father is a woman

There Is A Force

sleeping in the beginning of hot blue petals

trotting up the road to cut throats

it is in the heart of the ground

a salt heaving around

rocks writing mad signs

night bought it

and turned the hills

into darkness

and sold the sea

its grief is a moss

that drips red

writhing dew

a mind-bogglingly soft

and wise blob of grift

Timor Timor Mortis

Discarded soldiers

and kids on the milk-train.

Sanctity of mist,

Beautiful, but too weak.

Topology of goya,

Seditious, groaning

Tucked away in gaia.

Six weeks wept in my hands;

and money

made my ears

sweat.

Lovely Grieving Agony Of The Broken

You asked how we were doing,

if we were missing hell.

Grief is not rain.

Nor is it food for the barbarian womb,

a javascript method for 3d innocence,

a death-note fireproof-weed of magnanimity!

Here in this crowded catastrophe of beloved

wet light, a deranged dark perches.

A young hot cage mechanism;

A prehistoric animal's saliva.

I kiss light.

Gnawing sleek photographs of my teeth

Imprinted udder-bruised holes in the

Blueprint of a birth-moment synaptic cloud.

Tinges of rage

Rages that pass

before the moon

Rage trembling in the

dream heart of a tree

Rage in the memory

of the sea's blood

Rage in a mirror

afraid of summer

Rage, a table that

wants to be window

A bright green sea rages

it makes the garden grow

Rage

Not Love's First Body

A fierce pillar of wolves

Shining in the shed

Illuminating a field of mouths

Laminating The Fog

early night is slow light

made clean sight of right

love a wall

that wallks

thru wallks

The Apotheosis

Fish fall from the weeping sky

flying down as universal data

to chide stunted baby-girdered

daffodil objects.

Impounding zelda-in-pyjamas.

Sobbing, transportable, comfortable

crops, worm in a disembodied paradise.

The apex of this tendency is oops:

a nirvana sanctity

shattered, unrefundable.

Even the unborn gods mourn

the formal geometry

of a trampled upward

gleam that grunts.

Their Sodden Bellies Glow

A mass of gold

whips the struggling

seductive breathing letters.

Innocence,

a multivariate net structure

of consuming, supplicates,

unflexing the shape of being

into a book.

It is on this table, within its piles of

boxed landscapes, that thousands tire and die.

It is our sex, dead on the road,

red like a red wing, a ripcord

trident whirlpool ashtray.

Why The Light Fails

I came into my armpit

an ethical surgeon

of perverted tautness

aroused by centrifugal mimes

flaunting expensive buoyancy

pattern-book undulations

burning slander's

little machine-learned nipple

mapping your amnesia

procreating with chimpanzees

talking to implacability

demanding romance

while embracing power

A Strange Metaphorical Harm

I whet my soul against the keen

she-wolf's gnarled guide,

a punned epiphany wrecked

a useless re-creation of the past.

The cold shitty utility of intelligence aims me.

It echoes: i love you i love you i love you.

On the pavement, a lustered

heart, clean as dirt,

calculates the silence

of a dead tree.

Foam Vignettes

wobbling in a puddle

a blossoming moon

resembles a jell-o penis

a hole in the house

revealing a cloud of eyes

the sun we made in this place of the trees is a child

and no one was born to be lost and the truth is a heart

as the body of a body

comes and goes in the sky

entering the eyes of the sun

one by one

the shadows of my commitments

use my heart to kick my heart

A Free Moment Keeps Out The Light

Reverence is a texture under duress! A

Law sharded by bankers. Endeavours

Licking her throat to quiet loneliness.

Kelp-pitted arteries wistfulfy conjuring

Money from lithe epidemiologists. A sheaf

Of fuckhead soft ditches crumbling smiles.

The dewy stillness of comprehension.

Anemic cyber-sexing atoms, delineating

Gouged gibbous cages, willows dull as disease.

Come To Me Now, You

You wish for the melodrama of knowing.

You want the compromised subtle elder experiences.

Your dreams ache to be seen.

We do not speak now.

You are a cat

Carrying a woman

In a box

Into the ocean.

I don't care.

In the night, i am a child,

i am your name, and i am the gleeful satisfied

lips of the earth gleaming with blood;

i am an animal, and i am a feeling gone home,

a moment, a dream, a wave

A Clear Need

long ago, someone died in the sun; a sign

confused by green wind; an early dream

touching the beautiful language of love.

now time glitters

burning cliffs

of insular madness

wrinkle analysis

& engagement

moist as chiseled ash

sagging on instagram

shudders

A Hypnotic Den Of Holocaust-Cut Spuds

in the serene muscles

of the sun,

a hunter grew

that's how the body we

are, became good at killing

You Drink The Ground Of Her

her fissioning narratives

and her conversations gleaming

incoherent, snug, and crumpled

her nest fills your breast

where a wounded rain

holds the perfected

shape of her rage

she is a blossom touched

by inauthentic desire

her thorns shrug, her

rocks bend to the wheel

her melanomas claw

at bright billboards

her saffron wolves

fuck you

her light

sustains

a transient

slice of peace

Sea, Smoke, Bones

the eyes of words

in the dark on the ground

in the middle of the head

gasp for pity:

o why is it this way?

all of pain is a wired mirage,

a soft shivering in the lap

that understands the breath

of words

we live as embers,

birds in the tree

of eternity

we wake

at the edge

of the sea

as a dog

in a dream

kicks the rain

a horde of passions

grooming the pitiless

eyes of words

A Narrow Mirror

blood is a broken symbol

a demure reality

it shows what we receive

smooth lurid molehills

of interminable desire

pot-bellied fleshless

hunched births wandering

a wading pain

wings tuned

to the jetty

of revery

rays in a self-styled game

of this very old act, entirely

holy, cracked and alone

among the seas, we are not

Buried Instinct

mother and father killed

truth

with the inflammation

of work

the logic of thought

that mistakes love

for a bouquet of water

its burden wrapped

in a forest of photographs

Is Every Ancestor A Sacred Racist?

I need to learn to love you

and i mean where we are

i think that i am always singing

you are the last thing in the world

a confused thought in my heart

this spring smells

now i will be completely here

i will not fall, sloth furled

i will be a song

for the beloved

Blind Hurt

light longing to open

glistens greater than

the thought seen in it

riding on pillows perfectly

into a pool bed of cedar-naked

5-channel sacred tumours

zazen silhouette

cutting remission

wildcarrot hairdos

pock-marked, drift-puckered analogies

flash-strewn with cobwebs in moiré air

blah: i know

you wanted

life's vast

hidden music

an arousing codeine

to help overpower mud

On A South Aesthetic

i slept somewhere in light:

solid echoing, crumbled,

unself-conscious

i dreamt of

sweatbacked sapiens

their wave-sown felicitas

heart-breaking scandal-screens

thier cock-brambled murmuring

in lipid-wrecked bathrooms

their deplorable flecks of data

rutting into electron absence

their anonymous sobbing waves

milking pyrite adultery networks

their desire grazing

the bruised scent

of actuality

Among The Willows In Glorious Rainbow Blood

Imagine you found naked hair,

in the mirror, playing music!

Graceful; it seemed alien,

capable of selflessness

— its body: wine.

Smooth and clear as if

forgotten, it exuded a

restless instinct.

And to touch it was to touch desolate

consent where nothing will ever need

anything, to fail at repairing reality with

the non-presence of precise chains, & to sit

among the willows in glorious rainbow blood.

Hours Full Of Water

She spoke of change as we passed the florists, and asked:

Do you do not see the motor, the gnats?

Take my beliefs! The nite is

a histogram of karma-looting.

The public became leveraged workers, destroyed

through a peer-to-peer sea

removing even a sense

of human conscience.

Cut-drenched violet-pressed

well-fed rex-memoriam

gang-fight carnival-lyric

music-sculptures.

A worn-out self promised to love evil,

to never ask to be named.

Vague days raised

continual darkness.

Throw The Answer Through A Fountain

flow up

swallow     the secret

honeycomb of migration

a summer afternoon

turns   light

into      light

tongue nestled in bed      rain shrub

all-sagacious southern     rinsed air

lily bright            orphic pool

undreamt sun's      sweet contractions

In Time I Was Convinced That Viewing Grasps

it is not a question of the heart

or the skin, but a quiet blind grace

nicknamed temptation

a rhetorical delirium

rebuffed by the sky

hidden in the mouth

words deft as sparrows

jabbing the blind condition

of the world

i have no love

for the walls

of the target

nor the long bliss

buried in our eyes

aches coexist with rot

hungry to have a soul

Cliff Gutter

in an instant

winter cataracts the silence   bruises the sea where

birds of death       lie radiant on flames

a heart left in my soul        sees the sacred machine

skeleton         of a persecuted exploration

in my hunger            i can almost see living

junkware             brilliant and mercurial

unconcerned            afterlives crashing

muddy        into mood deciphered dust.

Dreams Blush Stiff-backed Among Networks

A keyboardinterrupt topology

shatters into renderings.

A language sanctioned as resistance

gradually scatters into the void.

A fragrant iron-hearted fruit

opens stones to sing of stones.

Space Perfected Blind Meat

Dissolve in the bread

Slip from the autumn moon

“Unicorpse” bare,

Candied, implicated

35mm cogñac gloat.

Soulzight fanged.

Stay in the sterile mall.

Small Sorts Of Knowledge

Like the way i felt

my furniture.

Or how my mind saw

interesting forms

in empty rooms

and read fields

of intrinsic mist.

Consider the lonely architecture

of a living window. Or roads

lined with dust, stuck

among trees, carefully

expecting to become

patterns.

Little Encounters

Wounded euphoria

talentless

fails the garden

Darkness smells

of the river

Xeno transplanted

spirit vectors

Absolute grief

slipstreams

The scent of peace

compiling a shore

I Wanna Be Good, I Wanna Be Reckless

Even before I start,

I am tired of Hell.

Meadow-green thighs undulating

peacock-shrine fresh-entrails

of unpremeditated sex technology.

Remorse arrays

stunned by the rain.

A new photograph

which marks a motel.

Moon sweat and yawning moss.

In your unerring land, you carve dreamless

quadriplegic, troublemaker, focus-changing.

Hoping bliss is

charisma undressed.

Samsara's Green Code

Jello sobs at the bottom of the short-lived wish

in a nymphal silver rhubarb crease among the poi

garbage on the liquified floor of the lumpy room.

Tongues disrupt

the vertebrae

of powder.

The difficulty

of universal thought

is textual.

On The Horizon

The discarded

pregnant cigarette

of beauty is singing

In a software megacity

caulked with expensive

breadcrumb bureaucracies

Where history,

feral, lubricates

melancholia.

Walk Over Me

Clean the sun

to see the moon

poised where sparrows drown

Rocks, melanomas, epiphanies

conferring void echoic endurance,

on slow, unquestioned

devolved and gouged

distance

It is as if, i was

thinking of facts

to keep my heart

dreaming of love

Dying equates self

with deformity, a horror

of an actual completing light.

And You Who Are Not In Heaven

stout sun-silt

all-at-once osmotic

adrenal translation-bracken

thorn stew-gestures

ravaged-by-morals

__init__ Muses

Eat the

rootless

lazy

silence

Consider

the scrawny drum

of tongues

grub-staking

wonder

Stare into the wreckage

of encapsulated immortality

Init the muses

I Die Within You

Scrolling along a coal-oil beach,

Where power's half-forgotten

Crotchless corn-bright

Cosmopolitan underwar

Embalms icebergs

And savagery

With its bad necrotic breath

Huddling within the tide

Holds the moment's megaphone

The Blessing Of My Own Branding

Powered by an unwilling precise

Sort of weather, the poor slow

Orchids in the tall white sky

never see the whole thing

Clots scatter their

Thousand-watt lung noise

to tame everybody

Light, silent and naked,

Remembers their first dream

The Horror Of Laughter

by the river you wait

turningrain on the rocks

into lust

Born To Discover

an intimate plum

promiscuously infects

tricksters with disquiet

stars breach

craving a universe

each cell

picks away

at dawn

The Touch Of A Rock

in the half-light of preoccupation,

i set out to reach my life

surfing the numb future sap

of trauma's useless promise

each petal

guards

a pulse

The Clothes Of The Sun

Beneath the growth of its eyes

we are lost, and a blind

burning chronology reels

overheard in the moonlight.

We, of the swamp compound

blood, exactitudes of dream-poems,

blackbird sit in inconstancy.

Somewhere fear gasps,

care-swarm duplicates

shake barking

horn's atonement.

I feel milk

hold the crumbling.

The trees are feeling

the morning, there's

grass in the wind;

And in the mist of the sea

a shark oozes queries.

We Are Always

In the world, a light

covered in the sun.

We are in the mountains

within stars, and we are

what the trees dream.

When we were born on the river

all water watched the sun sing.

When I Won

I was glowing

in the green of sex

liplessly chuffing

a prayer to bacteria

uncomfortably calm

in a bowl of holes

Holding The Secret

scrubbing

contraceptive

skin

counting

the bumps

on consciousness

I Will Be Hope

my tongue follows

a new caricature

into the unknown

a wolf sleeps

in the bottom

of the toilet

I change again:

cool the heavy

mountain until

it fits in my hand.

Messing Up The Orphic Light

Somewhere, once, there was a place of

animation, transliteracy, aggression,

social decline, and undiscouraged rivulets

An office of fucking

pain

A man on a leash

boisterously burning

Muthafucka Hello

you are a green

nocturnal reflection

your ticket

feeds the pink

you never die

you are the desert

mud of blue

collar change

you are a deep reef,

preposterously floating,

really happy.

During The Storm I Think Of Myself As I Am

Weeds in the swamp of shoku, sloshing scented souls.

Outlandish cliffs anointed  with oil.

Sharp bones where flesh floats.

Cold blue morning light.

Enzymes. Insecurity.

An abscessed interior.

The House Heard A Name

The dawn cut

small shadows

into teeth.

Fermentation of the

one who knows what it is

we will become.

Time Will Never Begin

until the stones

are broken

by the river

where the song

of a bird

cuts into a heart

after the tongue

of a dying man

thinks of love

on an afternoon

in the summer

when language dies

The Burst

pillows foam

like mountains, thrown

in pain

lilac dumb

firing, a harvest

of loss

perfumes saturating

an abundance

of loneliness

Icarus 24,900

The history of

Form is like a rose

Standing near my sperm

Or an object prototyping light

With a mania-driven hormone

Less Planet Than Cloud

The smell of dust smells

& is the flick of the flicks

firsting the first thing first

Who I Am

I am a fire-breathing catholic c.e.o.

and my mother-in-law's kindergarten teacher.

I think i have a lot of misery to give.

I am a she-whale's side hit by fingernail harpoons.

My son is a suburb.

I cannot talk of everything walking in my mind.

Exclusively I drink from the old plow bed.

I am the first shadows of the season.

This day is the only one I will ever see.

We Eat Doors

among thirsty

crisco-insisted

erect apples

withdrawal ions

improvising a ravished

faith

This Empire

trash-pile

cacophony    technoflesh

enslaved    currencies

a market of compromised capabilities:

batteries, deeds, boots, thermos, prefixes,

racists, rebels, rum, power, regret, autonomy

On The Event Of A Representation

No one knows

the quiet things

that hide because

unsignified

Instead all watch

utopian leopards on stilts

thinking of bubbles and

looking like joy

Indifferent to the velocity

of a precipice

heaving and protracted

within all names

In The Bathroom Of The Self

love is an animal

swimming thru shadows

a wound

only a child

sees

tired flesh

saying nothing

an eye

that believes

in the same fire

indefinitely

In A Candle

every breath

thinks of death

a circuit

that light

laughs thru

as it sleeps

Me at Home

among oulipian decisive

fingertips a woman sings

until an ocean fits within a room

somebody has fed the children glass

crisp-fable moth-fond martyr-glazed

forklift-curled deep-green institutional

pomp computing tanned swampy glances

tender lame honey

cradled by victimized fog

a hearth of incomprehensible feathers

reasoning about pure temptation

the perfect silence

in a frightened god

a coffin designed to be rubbery

an anaconda of passion,

and a comedian observing

a $29.00 cloud

shining in the depths of the toaster

with pigeons on the couch,

and the factory lama

reading the godalmighty day

A Baby

The wind is almost delicious,

its wings hard enough to fold.

Wet on the ground,

reason examines

its empty feet.

The soul crows.

Brains, cranial and impermanent,

borrow fact bouquets of viral dedication

from plates of hair filled with maggoty

bankrupt programmable treacle life.

Make No Tools

The scent of money

thrust into archetype.

Ouroboros birthing

night and morning

in two long polaroid impulses.

The Grove Of Grace: Lovers' Curvature

from the falcon, muslin-washed

dreams gushing dawn. Un-atoned

sweet 2,000,796 liquid evidence

orchard-smooth

tender-unconscious

mountains ritual-buzzing

on ecstasy's lips

a song of sex

drum damnation, tainted

mint exultation perfusion

lava floor, daytona pencil

language-basting

drop-jazzing

all the mud

It Rose From The Sea, It Leapt

walking at the edge of sex

in a dream of explained time

three conjoined machines

mirage the balance

honeydew cliffs

shivering scavengers

Mix Me A Barbed Wire Reflection

You are a petal surrounded by indulgence,

A quadriplegic equilibrium darkly musing.

That is why death is a crumpled oil

That is why flowers birth elevators

Kainate wolves

clicking likes

Establishing coherent quark things:

Singular solitary ready to control.

A Confident Swimming

Incompleteness was

the primary substance

in the dominant cage

The future, a quiet living

water arriving in a futility closet,

a cardio code, indignity salt.

The future, a cloud stitched into snow.

Life then, on the shore, glistening,

baked into a whole cave of files.

Until all eternities end,

i will love you, of that

i am confident, little else.

Another Future Has Been Here

in the coffee

in the house

in the sun

in the voice

in the morning

in the enlightenment

in the summer leaves

in the pillar

in the target

in the tea

in the copyfileobjsource

in the orchid

in the me

in the evening

in the jailhouse

The Moon Must Stop Singing

to be a five-edged diffraction of a deeper faint

fluorescent, fertilization unfolding a moment, a

riderless, limitless love offering a cut tinfoil

kiss to every gloss-gushing stone-dispersed rose

wall mystery idea plums drunk in a perfect dream

the sky is numb

essence of same

melody

I Wrote A Book To A Wall

i wrote of how

flowering muscles

wound the day

and of how

rigid lovers

sublimate care

& of how time

breathes hair

& of the intellectual

and tender dance

of lightning

and of how keeping

a seed bell

in the deep energy

leads to windows

the wall

did not read

anything

i wrote

Closed And Graying Flowers

poured into print

brands and truths

unsorted, mad

schadenfreude

bodies numbered

with cearwylmas

anxiety-surges

seething cares

remaking

remaking

kingfishers, hi-mems,

nuclear-sighs, boxers

moving smoothloomingly through

mammoth  originary  holochains

A Tiny Vacant Desert

There is nobody here

who doesn’t press the button

to make the sound of a birth

Yet the rains are so dirty, & the valley

persists in the intimate

torment of is wordless heat

And as light decays

the primal green

Books manicure winter

burying rumours

in a benign

and faceless

alcove

Erobot i2i

buchenwald

disheveled

amnesiac

fuchsia sages swarm

in fury consumerism

micromanaging the sudden yesreaderyes

that drizzles through a broken metaphor

Sharing Such Raw Moments Consitutes Awareness

Epiphanies paper-thin self-effacing forgotten

notice a favorite invisible shivering bereft

stubborn briefcase flagstone confined in joy

an instagram quantum fulcrum anaphor forgotten

prayer impaired by a thigh-drowning repetitive

mysticism-romantic bright flax gruel

sexy in the corners of cleverness,

in the correlated ghetto of innocence

pondering a heliograf software ferment

acquired in the braid displayed gap

silently hovering in flesh

inexcusably unpremeditated

punctually euthanized

forbidden

careening

Her Lips Are Footnotes

they are amenities: two augurings

of phlegm. Ritual chocolate.

Commotion. Oil-coil & co-function

envyings, weeping wet

ohohohohoh magnanimity!

wake-up peach-

lamb chasms

living love

a calm careless statue of homeland

hurrying to catch the next freight

out in the dark

Abt. Form And Preaching

Camphor and honeyed grief burst out of

The prodigious simulation of what is.

They stood stands on the couch

and spun for a long time.

One thoughtful, physical sulfurous

Unblinking, affected now,

And its buck, coveted.

Save the thing itself

Cut-out and bred

Into fundamental isolation.

We can take each other. Like icebergs

Holding source. Restraint thinkers

Claiming a blessing, an experimental

Belonging contract; a parachute

Orbed ruined fuck of protein

Encapsulated rhyming code

Which meats in paradise.

Thanking All That is Possible

Philosophers killing altruistic debts.

The sun in a painting.

A mudded glover wing.

A woman; a name.

Forks.

Jaws, brains, rainbows, cedar.

A suicide burned, alas, what

could it see? My office

Was mourning memory, caught in starlight, melted by

Quartz light to fire. The rain of my orientation

Stock with the reason of a bed.

The Body Of Solace In A Deep Field Of Water

its shadow see the shadows of birds

and now the wind that will be the water

the goddamn return of the blood silence

the pool the sun falls into as it becomes stone

as we sleep, turning a little bit round and gently

bouncing in the cold calm river

in this mistake of a universe

we harvest secrets from

gravity, and orgasm

smothered in

machinery

mountains, with nothing

except sometimes wind

this is the true child’s vision

that easily covers the wheel

everyone dead at the feet of the

cumulus-warmed, mourning heartwood

a whirring smudge of an hour, peaceful

in a crumbling legend soon-to-be revoked

Never-ending Instincts Bled Into Blurred Memory

Antibiotic hours snowshoeing through gruel.

A clock showcasing appalled stones.

An abyss giving out privacy coupons.

A non-negotiable multidirectional

ritual peeing into a sphere.

It undresses for you with a stutter, and

walks profaned crone-virgin

past undershirted dogs.

Scheming, violet, angry and intact

a blind star yanks at characterization

until it ends.

Why assess the subject of meaning?

The monitors blink.

A Few Hours Needlessly Resolved

A wild fire. A disappearing cup of hawk.

Agamemnon’s tongue.

Pluripotent turtles.

Venom-gendered diagrams.

Lymphocyte snow. Antiviral long-agos

rooted in intergalactic see-me-to-be-seen

brushoff-towels that blame themselves for cliches.

A crystalline light that stands like

a sterile reimbursement.

Juliet's 1962 first homecoming love plan.

Thorns

Beneath slow leaves

and down the mountain

all the small birds have

Come to disappear

To dispel the bones of shrill-gorged rest

Of knobbed citizenry at the bottom of the perch.

[art] To Sanctify The Easychair

A slither-ethos blueprint, and drafts of summer daylight,

false as databases poisoned by a financialization cloud.

Oily night rhizomes, unshorn

drift, freighted with

enter-buttons.

Just the ponderous

matter of remorse algorithms, wish

principles, tattered iq valleys.

Cradles, wrapped  tight with love. Okra and lichen

in silent corners, anemic

heaps of lavender.

Reflections guarantee

everything as real,

at postcard depth.

At The Wedding With Selflessness

— your body kills pigs.

the apostles twerp,

facedown, clamped

in beguiling

complicity

—perhaps Delight Is The Right Way To Hurp>> Loneliness

The dead cluster, walking through the sun.

We ride on to the house

Thru a great storm of pain

Saying what others said:

weeds.

Signs caught a sea-spray of

Overgrown gaze wrappers,

greater than any surprise

the range of our lives.

Selma celluloid pliant

Limbs deepening reason

Of Death

Deaf, in arrears; crispr–cas

The hapless jar. Breath's sign

Is rooted in compulsory bondage,

To speak it is to be an animal.

From The Mouth Of The Last First Thing

No rag of larva. No rumor of blue air filled

With everything you know.

Love is a saint

Who'll wake the metalled

Flesh enslaved by tears.

We sing the young curls in the wings

Of light and swamps of the sun

Wrinkle in its circle.

A Little Time In The Heart

wandering in a linear emptiness

the world emits lies

my father and god culled

from the spit in our mouths

a cold rain

patterns my body

a woman sings

in the wind

a dead tree

sets the stars

in the sky

each night

i am born

from the flowers

of the sea

a kind of road

of stone and light

Rolling

in the morning

so many things

will never be said

i don't want to miss

a rock or your hand

i am tired of thinking

of love, now feeling

i love

Ocean Propositions

caress deciduous

histamine lightning

melt all guns

Etching Sludge

Everywhere our relations peacefully transition from

Wet grass courtyards with hushed ears to the keel of sludge,

Takeout boxes that a creeping coyote brings to a dirty stream.

Like the gouged

Blunt saltblood

Of a cold estuary

Awash in icy wind

In The Garden Pond

birds began to bleed

a sleek mad diplomatic

puddle of books

a post-hypnotic nerve

sweating discrepancies,

redundant, sleeping

mangroves moons shining

on this betrayed babel

spew sobbing flames

baths for lamentations:

a glaze of light

protrudes sideways

from my wounded heart

Geological Time

A cold sun.

A cold universe.

Cold as a wall.

The trees are cold.

The earth was a little girl

and she died. Cold.

I Am Not Sick Of The Trees

Remove the sky,

and that, which is not

impossible,

burn.

Stomach Dawn

dollar sweating

truth party

Granite

A stock noise reflects the rocks.

I eat the hush of my feet.

If Joy Saturates Syntax

Wisdom overdoses

on love-shingled analogies.

Exuding A Universe

Cortex dividends

and pdf gladiolas

at the funeral of war

The Species We Are Stuck In

Corpses of love

Spamtrap empty truth

Are We Born To Feel?

bread

fucked

home

summer

womb

tongue

Access To The Self

Path virus!

Less than verbal

and less than veins.

In The Froth-corrupted Glide Beneath Sleep

the sun

of a sun

in the sun

kisses one

i love

lifts him

in a shape

of a heart

All The Pure Things Are Inside

implacable gristle,

tributaries bringing pollen,

transcranial magnetic break-ups,

an insinuated hill.

Genderless Combat

rustle and flax of intermittent love

falling on the bed where the stars exist

in the next room i am waiting for the

summer sun to grow green empty

and cruel trees from a slice of dawn

There Was A Silence, It Would Not Open

But I did not know it. I felt a sweet thing

Botched

Golden incarceration, silence notes,

the racist stars that lust and grieve

a body full of gratified poetry

bitchy sensitive ballet

transcription byproducts

drawing the necessary

slave-reading light

as it grazes

horrendous

anointing

synonyms

Kiss The Tangle

Shared your body calls

Morning to song

To say of the moment,

I am sick

of trying

to find someone.

Intimate Temperamental Discrepancies

etxt seedless

deep beatbox

adhesion mute

pies, beer, diapers,

and mental passivity

entanglement capacitors

The Drug Mortality

the task of a day

thus forever

weaving the lost

deeply congruent

autonomous fictions

comparing loneliness

and heat

Home-sick Orphan

uniform browser

honeycomb neurons

The Cutting Of Chance

Below them on the table

stood a never.

It is a place, agreeable

and blinded by bees.

Lopsided People Without Any Morals

Anxiety. There’s the bulk of his testament,

programmable reproach.

Reptilian impales.

Traffic (the movie).

Why I Remember

Huddled in the future,

i listened to the rain

smiling, serene

In The Corner Of Laughter

A face rotating like an endless

Wound lined with words

Under the sun of the body

A dream spliced by a smile boiling

Rivulets inside stained stigmata.

Arendt Alone Creeley-like

for dumas and pollock

bbq blank

unguent mind

drives the brambles

down a dawn that

smells of windows

Ethereum Is Not A Sacrifice

A polaroid of a black bear holding an umbrella

morbidity-furrow: a home-made

contingency ur-cantos

saran-wrapped inmates

in mass-market holes

of sugar

A Velvet Gun

© 2008 pores

magnolia-stained language

new on-device publishes

speech: an interior

noise that doesn’t even

gene-edit homes

No Brain Without Reason: LSD

I turn to the sea.

I churn to the seething.

I become the internet

The hours foam.

My hand is sky.

Thing is empty.

Now We Are Afraid

There is a name

For axioms

That collapse

Prison into vision

Payrolls that flow on

The darkness of rivers

Where the dead are made

Wind that is a mirror

Birthing a naked future

Living Dust

computing --

1967-2009 tongues,

songs of the web

selective expectation

right-click haters,

base26 capitalism

algorithmically

gui engendering

care

Spleen Oil: A Method

Flowers initialized.

Eclipse troll.

Passion screen.

Cut The Keys, Nag The Rope

Carving utopia in the blood,

‘atoms’ of swinburne’s

slender apparel.

Abhor... This america,

No, this is here.

O’Hara’s radical life curl.

Quickened spools

of adjacent possibility.

Whet My Eye Against The Keen Unwrinkled Sky

Viral implacable nacho.

Shakex3 boredom nest dew.

Intifada picnic commodities.

Time Will Speak Time

Loss: protoplasm.

Anytime brochure: tensor seed.

Sulk soil!

Hooch: blushing, emptying

Laws for a megaphone.

An intermittent lust troubled the worms.

Beautiful Cracks In A Coffin

laser-compressed

hydrocarbons

discarded

omnipotent knuckled

holy math

cultured

a deluxe pill

The Evening Fields

A desolation of prurient

Cortex kicked the gut-chattering

Suffering of money breath

Eschatology maps the void

Resveratrol

i see good days deep in homes with sirens on choked emit,

& this energy of the universe, a battered hemisphere storm

lifting the throat into heart as an illuminated apple

hauling a few clouds into some recruitment guidebook,

we watch the venom north, counting on nothing

the data gets ill

Cyber-sexing Pyschotherapists

Deplorable. Indeed,

all this growing, self-sustaining

rubble of light.

Husks, lilac-dumb and

webby, reaping wolves.

Methamphetamine

smooth hot [babble].

Surfing a #1, pomegranate

first yew, winged

grass soggy with fresh arms.

The universe was endless,

a parable without presence.

And I Remember The Winds

The winds are the secrets of the sea,

a corrupt saffron sea

where lives are concepts,

porous unknowns.

The heart of a place

That has gathered an immense

cold fire in the ground.

The winds are a dream that old birds sell.

Flesh Garden Clock

my pre-packaged hands, the body's executives,

claw at money, hopes and prodigous dots

tear a mouth into a long smile

to reveal a roiling in the crotch

sell the washed root drive

that pulls sun to mirror

kiss a peace of the heart

to the point of pain

wear the evening chain of street time

when the seed of never is an animal

in the stratosphere

UnBeloved

Ecstasy of spirit. Smiling.

Breathing in our eyes.

Pollen. Pinewoods.

Sequestered p.41 epiphanies.

Cryptoanarchy encoding butterfat

Intensity curved into outlines.

Maribou clay.

Airstream pica.

Website night-hawk.

Dematerializing.

Thickened Windows In Your Brain

At night a warm unknown destiny

Grows the eye of the soul in a hole

In the house where the walls of the sun

Intimate as flowers in my bones

Itch a favorite dream

Love is the language of a rainbow

And the books i think with my cooking tongue

And a heart in a stone,

And a bridge of sweet seeds.

The Cards That Took You Away

i love you so i will

drag you allround me

because i feel like shit

IP Venusians

Superconductivity excreting feathered nettles,

Higgs pus acolytes slicing grits, corroding duchamp,

Wrestlng umlaut dioxide, strutting tflop amenities,

Musingly shaking perversion's wool.

Afternoons, Assonantal Or Consonantal Shifts In The Fog

The longest river in the world is driving me insane.

My flesh is exploding. I am screwing the stars

As yuppies listen.

So much depends on the pictures of

Kubla down, gif-dream sunshine.

I Saw The Nakedness Of The Morning

dewsoaked in creosote

wren committees

#anonymouth

scorned

vitality

Free-glittering Reminiscences

Don't print-me-on-demand

nor delete the keyframes

of my implacable future

Employed By What We Can't See

Sunlight shadow silos: i made a painful decision,

iteration, bulb, mountain, A war. Nothing would happen.

The facts of ripples,

Understood the sum of your vision of losing.

So the appearance of a war.

All intimacies of love end.

A contagion grows deep beautiful taxes.

A flood of fluid oak songs grieving Dream.

A bell in the green room imagining

A kind of light, living in a body

Every one's direction

Waves a golden light.

The Weapon Of The Bee Soft As The Sun

There is not a day i do not think of you,

in a moment of a breath, a barren wind.

These are not the words of waves,

Nor the young smell of birds.

i am the evening house

a pain in the heart of the heart

A dark wind covering beauty.

A sleepless poem where your body is silent.

A Child Drinking Water

the rill tip gesture cast

a smooth beautiful kiss

A Lean Light

sang in love's paradigms,

from peace to disorder

and beyond where the grass is

or fog or snow broken in your bed

an ovoid sutra dismantling anxious

tautness, embeddings to shuck meaning

duress inside plastic endorphins

Wake Let's Play

positron twentieth-century

heart-felt smartphone-friendly

pre-packaged puffy-hands

wiping a hole in chastity

Dolls, Eating Peaks, Smudge That Nuzzle

niches of birch, corkscrewed,

filled with ahimsa blackbirds,

whale nightspots, the garden still

a box in the grasses, listening

to the music of prehistoric women

cradling the wonder that a lone

scientist called key

A Child Lies In Ambush In A Grave

poised in the high implications of blur; the mind

hardened into a boulder dawns a subtle thought

I Watched The Shortest Sound, I Stopped To See It

usb pillows

slam the door on the twisted

unseasonably lyrical, concave,

uneasy, rewrite meek feral online

experience of a red leaf!

peeling rocks to reveal

sex-shop stiff-necked fractals

In The Dreams Of The Cat

the event of meat, a moment of meat,

a clique of suspended meat

utfus dolphin mustard with milk,

steamed foot with a little girl

thus a beautiful game

The Wall Was Clearly A Thing

Sketchpad of death.

Balm juice rag,

rhythm of noxious light.

Incremental nanotechnology.

Floating schist.

Categorical foam.

Yacketayakking peace peasants

coriander decay as the viral ground

converts pearls into metaphysical tools.

Silences shuffling the bored

words of a bathroom meeting.

The thought of watered trust.

Yum obsolete ideas meanderings

crisp-fable curvature, faked

diseaseed.

Gravesend Scalable Platelets

The key of cold-drill, sleepless sea-blood coil

clouds market spun experts   weeping enumerated

cemeteries for desiccated bread

Sci-fi-style i make a zen love

spun for ten, believe the home

ontology

Rolling numb laundromat corn flaws

as winter matures spun     into an

essence of myself

An Actual Victim Of Moths

After all the words, a microscope

bends a soft, inscrutable increment

Of history into mortality, seductively

blessing tiny rainbow's confused thought

Who malicious rescues the inexorable spine

of tragedy: the roadmap of 21st century objects

Sometimes you will notice the body of a question.

Refund All Thought

marrow sharded

plasma stream

of tenuous eyes

I heard you wake buttons, maneuvering

The slugs of tarnish across a beautiful

multiplying present.

Excuse Plunge

A house always engulfed by the same torrent of dead

Stars. In someone's touch, rain starts. The excuses

Are loud and distraught. They react together. Light

contains their animal body. Deep time is like a lie

When you shake the fire, wild earth scatters frothy

Between the trees and the mountains die in my mouth.

It Is As If You Know, Everything Is Better Than You

Sometimes the clay, risking itself,

whispers to the sun a story

of an indescribable time

When the train comes to the meadow

stream on its own, and the sound

of the moon is its tracks

I know you know

You are with me

where you become

the dreams i love

I know also

You don't know it.

And I don't know it.

You are a quiet feeling,

a spot, huddling, anguished.

Hold The Breeze

We found the pain of the

Stars and a vulture

on the third night

We arrested the sages

when they woke the tender

and divine thing

An excited death broke

free like a leaf

whispering to fate

Paralyzed as if oblivion's

song once mattered, we scratched

the waters and watched the sky

Heavy Growth Griefscapes

Thick ballet-scented pulsations

breakthrough “uncut” to speak

of the dead flower

naked in his head

and his family

breathing

desire

Advertising lay in the architect's thin mouth.

End Times

At night, unity

flows west

toward entropy.

A niche where knowledge

variations, windswept,

swarm.

Cutting through wondersadness

amid repeating motions

in the cranium.

A yellow hibiscus

in the cataract rain

trembling with formulaic loss.

Tempered By Trivia

I’m interested in comfort.

I believe my life, being

the only one i know, is

answered with it.

Engage All

No, no one will miss my smile,

Nothing at all. I mean to say

Why do i care? I skip competition.

For Futility

As if the tumult

Of dawn spunk

and penis myths

aren’t remorse met.

I am the blood

that whispers

lightly: skin.

The Third Wave of Poetry

Begins with an empty room poem

sometimes considered experimental.

The edges

of the next poem

are hissing.

Then shyly patriotic poems

with closed eyes.

Next, dying wolves

reciting long poems.

And poems on quaaludes

and white wine glinting

with 2am strangers

A sauce of poems

embroidered on lips.

The street of a young

poem, nesting in a spruce.

The Body Of The

Sea is naked

in the ocean

in the corner

of the sun at

the end of

the earth

i am calling

jazz to save this

perilous pureed harvest

silence

Topology Work

torrid golden bear

remember the void

amputated gate of

silence  bleeding

the thing's being

gasping in the movie

pot-bellied glazed oil

of dilapidation's nest

and the gifts of love

in the people

listening

to the chairs

dripping scars

near the fields

Swallow My Heart

my new antennae

kiss the apocalypse

amid the crude acute

bark of immediacy

To Pluck A Feather From Thought

vultures & amygdala dust

play within the tiniest

traumatic breadbox, where

computers, moist and holy

fluid incantions

calcareous aspen

Coax Yourself Away From Me

this moment, becomes a cliff of uniforms,

controlled by blinks

and all the windows flow shut

all the systems

rat ski to sell

to burn tiny pauses at the byway

where consciousness is algae

& sleek joy, as abysmal care,

drifts slow on a rocky river

I Remember The Serene Echoes

the smell of all things

got so painful that

specks merged

with resilience

deep in the garden

of deviation

light rubbed light

watched the blind

moss-packed world

Secular Hordes In Autumn

Bitter wind delight

in the dissembling universe.

Comfort: buzzing in the middle of the trout or

Swan turns in plaissance, crackles, dances over

absent possibilities.

The very scene tingles.

It is a kind of calm app

smarter than any money.

Transcender!

hang-gliding on font-particulate

i am fluent alloy thick instinct

post-literal passion

A Dream In A Cage

protect the gritty

abandoned landscape

say nothing is insane

forget all surfaces

let the lies love

become clear, deep joy

sweating order's song

A Belligerent Day On The Cliff Path

In the cold hope of loneliness

nobody seems to be born.

Darkness leashed to the end-game,

glosses painful relations.

Speechless, no one searches the deep

secret floor of the ocean for a smile.

Resting In A Swarm Display

Hitch-hiking

through literature

in diapers

The Problem

is so comfortable

it can see nothing.

Like a kind of mad

rainbow, wrinkled

with dark writing.

Sipping tract

dna cock void.

Microdosing

the fugue.

Love

tumescent, delighted

in a cradle of drool

publishing beloved flesh

Sharks

Barren. Squat in their sorrow.

Cut from the same color as night.

The Owner In Your Mind

The scent of honey? An empty sphere?

A mid-priced teddy-interface for 3d-freeform

copyright-sanctioned mimesis?

A phase-functioned neural network?

Whatever it is,

it can live indefinitely. Fertilizing

the foetal grave called txt tatter

that you had gathered against sale

there where nothing was weird.

A Man’s Life

he keeps the rhythm

of the body

between the dream

like a branch

in the bottom of the night

whispering

he pulls a hand

to the body

of the rain

deep in the bed

of his bones

where heart cannot fit

he sing things

to the glistening body

of the earth

A Past In My Life

the sun was a thousand lines of darkness

the fish were so cold they were a stream of dead fire

the dream of the sea was a dead piece of light

the morning was dust

those who could cry, cried

pcb nipples, two moist frayed buttons of control

collecting blood illogically-aligned

decaying mind’s astonishment

as misery, talentless, scratched spring

Fist Heart-Sick Requires Meddlesome Meaning

like dali

gratefully i spoon

the dragon, silences,

drawn by guilt and sex

a universal brain

the dying skeleton violates

this bonus. I don't know anything

about my heart, constructed

as it is from barbarian sages

matrixed darkness, whispering,

counts innumerable kite

traces within consciousness

and the unfathomably deep oracular

barefooted mute play of fashion

bacilli treats all of us to daydream

incessant 3d-nauseated songs on the beach,

and on the kitchen's teeth, the washed

and dappled lips of a dark blue rain

the earth holds

salt in a pool

of screams

The Language Of The Download

justblogit

the new york review

of synchronized shadow flush suds

sat around, saying:

now honey unscathed

is a long plague

conceptual,

lunatic, private

thought-processes

in a cave

huddled with rage

Inhale

Placebo Chaos! It is forgiving.

It says: my intense pockets are ditch

synod seams, lovable vales of script,

radiant sad-lidded bastings mashing up

piety with little post-visions

our overlapping life

is made of a new

book that incites

no agreement

don’t touch our touch

and dream tag utopia

blossoming dawn

directional cream

warm under handkerchiefs

tonight i smooth

the sky's beaten

restlessness

The Cry Of A Fornicater

Erecting

a path beyond which

she used them to know she would

Love them. Because they spoke to her.

It's always the same time,

full chaos

and heartache

satellites.

Each day, we watch sad appetite

pleading with delusions

to hook features from which

we will be made solid.

And the body holds us, generous. There,

an axe. Strokes. Parts, stuttering parts,

left in a programmable garden.

We Studied The Hiding Cradle

On a pillow, a heart

gently, in your head.

The sun, in the eye,

a snake.

And the fire, broken.

The bones of the edge,

also alone, scream, and

there is no time to fall.

We're cold together

in a summer night,

waiting for the universe

to put a home

in the stone.

Teeming Consequence

dares to set the flow of events,

ordering plants as they spasm

rain plays over naked plastic

atrocities of decay

with a 2am smirk

the scent of an engine, its nature,

a homey corner, flaming

skinned with serrated boredom

animals nest here

armsoutstretched

on fear, enigma-born

a blackbird sits in my hair

i am porcelain argument

Nightfall, Soft, Gray, Inside

You type mercy

while you climb

back into my body

Where life is, immobilized

Thelonious chasing

divine molotov techniques

behind its hook. Felicitous

virtues. Cryptocurrencies

organizing hippocampal worlding

to emulate a tweet canyon.

Sensors, pre-packaged

from ever-decreasing weather,

cordial, burrow, to

unlock breakfast.

Human browsers seizing

ego space: a phrenologist's

six-channel interactive interactive.

The Only Thing I Need Is To Be Afraid

I assume tht

Mind, lovinyou

was the one

who thought

Wilderness.

What could i say now

tht my own pelvis

was so powerful.

You swerve

to throw me

out of your eye.

It would surely seem

Doubt yawns.

I Truly Need A Cup Of Rocks

Because there is neither digression

Or comfort. Floating on fibrous

sour shock, coverting covert

Carnality's noncommittal flesh.

The reconciliation

Between beauty and nature

signed the ashes

of a blind tree.

A single wing of water makes circles.

No One Is Poetry Now The World Burns

cannibal  sparrows

freeze  love

mouth hernias

base-vacancy spit

peat-fire

passion, to whom

intolerance gives

all flesh, watches

a crone approaching

I Have Felt, Within My Heart, Comfort

I love her;

my beloved

love

I sing slowly,

invoke rainsoaked

thighs

I hear no one,

nothing is

moving

Three Monitors Of Sunlight

cicadas within the trees of meaning,

a journey that trembles within branches,

a blue meadow where the stones are full of light.

A Bearded Chair Lay Strewn On The Ground

self flowers clung to a dark-blue smile that spat

over breast and whispered the goldline, silken-sailed

contemptuous budding fur of sun, leashed to altar-stains

and inward need

time hears the book tear the sea as we are

recycling a grove of trees, straining together

on the back of the poem, breathing in the name

of a leaned heart, ongoing in the quiet night

space is born among the seed of a cat, torn from fire

behind the ladder as a tune of a shrinking moment

and the earth floating in the heart as a field

objects swing from the stars to lubricate

unkillable mush, mulched flesh, smokestacks

retexturing marrow dawn, strapped there

to starving spirit, in infinite enchantment

Wash Our Breath

Sacred i came to see

a world crushed

And i said to you:

I cannot imagine shit.

It is difficult to shun the facts, to

clear things to be free,

to chill, to drink a dram of drama

In one study, citizens

Of the fresh implacable

Transitory dust say:

We may become

in fact a fury

that failed

A playground stone,

bodiless, without calling,

calling contingencies

to weather materialies.

Flick Of Vague Plunder

We climaxed at two.

We seduced each other's detail.

We became ground fire

loaded by

sea, coming in love

from a hole in the room

where the sky is so full of everything

and now i need a computer

to make a sense of laughter

to shed my hands at the funeral of wry bone water,

floating oak furrow in cool carelessness, thickened

nonlinearities chanting unerring thought

a precocious never

a beautiful hunger

Radiated Slick Intense Wreathed Singing

trembling god

in the sharp dialectic

enchantment of salt

remembering items concave

uneasy prunes and potential

digital and kinetic mosquitos

a thing that burns for the animals

the disease of precocious buoyancy

an emptiness of ineducable opportunity

Chestnut

cataract rainbow

dangling plumage

sharpened

nothingness

heart debt slab

of creaky keyboard

in the steel narrative

the subroutine of

an ancient savagery

grenades the horizon

Sheep-hooks, On The Wharves, Bloodred

The earth is catering to these deaths– i hear

Their falling. The pain of a gesture. A stray

honeybee crevice in a photo of an argument,

a timid machine.

Sheep-hooks, on the wharves, bloodred

wisteria, twinkling as the pomegranate shines.

Smoke Research

A disney button,

time forlorn.

Our hands sniff the earth.

God. Unfounded.

Yearning deep memory of the epoch,

Parable self-defeat screams annihilation

And a canyon’s amber numbness

Sleeps in sex-dowry pc-format madness

Riot-naked all-sagacious

in the chilly air of grief,

longing to contaminate thunder

Holocaust bristles

on a micro-level.

A Book To Say The Same Word Would Be A Dull Thing

love is a dream

and love is a part of me

think of the stars' naked light

as a gift of the flower to the crowd

on the first morning

see pale windows

eat the feast of the sea

the name of the word

the blood of the earth

the snow on the water

the hiss of a dream

on decision bridge

the face of a book

the eyes of a garden

the cup of a book

the end of a word

Discussions Supervised By Sharks Disperse The Sea's Broken Love

a pillow moon fleshy

suspends happiness

hovering everywhere

satin cold and soft

a fine language

meadow cuts inert

sewers apoplexy

out of a polite heart

the ordinary waters, of every

prodigal gas and rudimentary

gut cream, facilitate

madness, quietly

flecks of carcasses

deep in the aching terrain

of truth

someone superfluous

devours what perspective remains

and sows etheric ease

hybridization acrylic

on spleen negligence

As Gods

Lifeless. Hallucination. Ignore.

Neocortical. Fundamental. Memory misprint.

Commandos in the middle of pear-shaped

Spruce bloodlite broken 31p flow rocks.

Ribcage blackmail and warhol’s general pattern, in which

Electronic intelligence re-enacts the poet’s separable nature within

Time circuit alabaster rat civil arborescence banker ground.

My pearls :: geodesic-mourned

Photos reading another web of fresh

and seemingly postmodernism awkward overflow.

Because no problem koan can be larger

than the ee crystalpunk panoply

of an ancient pixel—gland archive.

Stones Try Their Own Voice-over

Innards. Peaches. Solitude.

This peculiar burlesque

of anxious love's

sexless dematerializing.

Kitsch the future.

Tautology death

cut from the centre

of keen voices huddled

like vagabonds amid

warehouses of textbooks.

Fuck device: a desperate name

for any hollow “ravenous” exposure

deployment of tender unhappy cheer

Aura

A long time ago when all looked small, hushed

by discourse synchronicity, heavy code shit

functional meditations, wreckage

Make Me Care

my heart is so delicate

it makes the cool soft

bones of my knot

blog joy

it trickles

down the road

where a pregnant girl

hitch-hikes through

an online graveyard

+

Hormone the rainbow

stung hyperopt

archipelago

of body

A Magnolia Crawling

Years ago the sun was a heart

and an eye a dream of a heart

Enamel Infographic

i am too real to be a war

too weak to abate

too substantial to desegregate

too unrepentant to render

too 4d to folly

i am an idiom scent gnawing sand

a pond stung by a taco

incredulous karma

an entanglement of ashes

a snowdrift of menopausal estimates

I Know Manhattan In The Sea

the future begets

dead earth above

a distant sea, thirty-six

miles back to the shore hills

and the air is a kind of sound

an awareness of unfinished flowers

in which the human heart is strewn

with emancipated robots

A Photo That Indicated Word Slaves

thread

the star venom

into precarious

beginnings

The Pain Of The Body Is Bored As You Touch It

i kissed that sperm bird’s silence,

not quite the magical typhoon

that the old doctor prescribed,

but a rerun furred with confusion.

i am seated, reflected

in mitochondrial waters:

living, twentieth-century enslaved

linear, perhaps touched, faith.

I bread cut the phrase,

acetylene pouting, hammer my soil,

because the hole was dark

and sense ungraspable.

Cribbed From The Ruins Of America

dew loaded

with fat

barking grey

eyes blurred

gap churning

fresh apoptosis

unquenchable

reveries

a sweating sun

a naked family

dreaming catheter

storms of slow sand

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output += bias

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