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blood, stairs, nine wands, one burning
bleed red and think green, for life's wounds turn sleep's themes to cobblestones piled in high Whitechapel walls where dreams (born and broken into rows) find each other; maybe murder; die. two corpses on a dirty shore. one speaks in tongues, one speaks no more. a pregnant belly blackens suns, dreamers dream like loaded guns. the furnace glows and glitters gold as time declares the whore is sold to a man who casts looks right and left like dice. regret leaves him bereft. we awaited nights for dreams of sand where moonglow circuits fluttered and stuck like cups in the mouths of dogs and cats, and sleep was in the fog that lay
flocks drop
like frostfall, spent necks shouted down past icicle sheets around the surfaces of buildings. those towers rise up in wrath, grey whales from under earth that spit waves from the windows where we sit and watch the world. flocks drop like diabetic starlights, space rocks shaven down to dullness and inedibility, strung lines of flight held back, bent and broken against invisible seas. we will be pushed by microbes from mud-bottom graves that send us all like zombies into sleep. the asylum is shut. the city droops its eyes in daylight. God takes all things back through the windows of our behemoths. ducks and doves and broadbills hit like raind
the difficulty of belief
one line of blocks up to the ankles, I supervise the up-going of the thing. make it higher and put up that                                                  treasured                                        &
one hill
there is one hill of many in dishwater and dumpster blood that I chose to love as a metaphor for truth. the shapes there bring ruin, things without eyes that look in the man and tell him stories where he raises fists against himself. there I've found garbage art with wings, things flesh-robed speaking from the hill pulpit. they are sick in movement with speeches trembling like stomachs freshly split, squares of indecency coughed into black bags behind that place that served Italian. I like the preaching faces—sad things true things things left half-digested on sidewalks where disgusted men pass them by. on this hill I'v
folie a deux
she gives him the blue light look, the careless thing they share in dim rooms half-built. it's a pretty lie not unlike certainty. she's aware of the hate. it boils piss like lust in her guts under lamps lit by gaslight and grenadine. she married without                        vows , a promise to never leave                    that sticks like litigation. the pulses            break off,
blue sluice
cast off care like blue snowfields into rigid water, and wash with mud the thrust of earth, our skin soft as salt mines. built you are of bitch and buttercream, of soured elements in the blue dot of a pin-prick spotlight and windowed skull. we can watch the fire fade into a black rat canvas, into blue gates that tumble up and loose finger grooves, smear eyes across your face like warpaint, faster and faster, momentum in the race to nowhere. and once done, we turn, we go aground and push up the lines of blue backs orbiting the moons of that rising ass, around corners, a shattered life in starshine, the masks beneath the
Come Death
EXT. CABIN IN SNOWFIELD - NIGHT Snow is falling in the winter of 1930 upon the exterior of a wood cabin set deep in a forested snowfield. We can hear the sounds of WIND and TREE BRANCHES RUSTLING as SHIPP begins to narrate. SHIPP (V.O.) Another one down. A hole begins to burn in the side of the wall, spreading out quickly, almost as though it were paper, and we hear the FLAMES CRACKLING.  Through the hole we see that Shipp sits at a desk inside, writing furiously with audible PEN SCRATCHES. SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D) Another one down... Shipp's notebook has a variety of names written within it, some of which are crossed out. 
on being an unwelcome dream
there's a darkness some nights that sticks to everything.  I'm sitting in warm rooms covered in machines of colored noise and I feel no health but the black thing that's stuck to nighttime TV and coffee, to bedclothes and the sweat they'd make, to mottled dogs and the backs of children. I am the dream, I think, another thought brought up by the pair of them, two laughing kings all smiles, tagteams and telepathy, sharing what I can't give because they didn't dream me for giving.  I am a dark heart in a brittle brightness, a sun shining in my own night sky, and in that there is bruising, a spot leprous white on skin that grins a
on pillows
now I lay me down to sleepless sweat, to you and I, those fever dreams that wake us screaming names like sex and the violence that follows.  you called me daddy just the once, and even that didn't stick like the sighing, the sweet exhalations you breathed for one birthday, or the crass clouds I choked back into blacker lungs cancered round with hope. now I lay me down on dark paths walked toward starry skies where there is no grammar, there are no words that wander from the safety of unlost wonderment.  here in the dregs, here in dreamed diseases I run to your forgiveness, feet alive on thin prayers whispered over pil
craft of country
this apartment is my still bleeding bastion a smoke screen violation of unsteady truths a segregation of perceptions that stick heartfast, overt in vastness of villainy.  pulp mulch of what we ground for goodness goodness me, we seem to have made these messes, pretty putrescence we all wear like apple- pearls in perpetuity.  good let us tear apart the green and growing and leave the burnt bound eidetic because I have no room amidst these books and boxes for anything less than transgression happy are the raped wombs happy are the stone hearts, are the light- less lives lost to ingratitude happy is that goodness grou
The Red Garden
The young junkie sat up slowly, sliding his back along the wall to roughly where it had been a half hour before.  The edge of the steps had begun digging into his back, a discomfort he felt worth correcting even high as he was. The vial hung limply in his hand, already charged and shot.  It had been poorly done.  Red leaked from his arm and was spattered over the surface of his dark skin and over the plastic vial's cover that showed the glowing yellow and blue electronics beneath.  The liquid coalesced into a rich velvet as it chilled in the morning air.  The familiar tingle danced about his head like a hal
written down
Armageddon washes in on silk and sand, a cool breeze to refresh the days of death, the dry days we dug down to suffocate in mud.  the gentleman in me let you die first. Hongyan drowned herself in the Miluo, more blue and youthful than the water, a sad end for beauty barely born.  we, too.  we, that thing that died in flight on feathered wings that ground down to dust. after the fall, we grabbed branches dropped in river silt to write a chronicle of dying drawn in down-watered red, a hateful article carved on hearts.  I still hear those beating demons, who pound out new pulp, fat and gratified and rive
dedicatory acrostic 3
Magnificent within the grass, Artful in the clouds above, Resplendent shine you from the east To every vision that I love. Into your hair, into your skin (Naught else to seem hence half as bright), Etch you bliss that sweetly grows Zealous faith within its light. Man was crafted from the soil. Arid is his dusty heart. Rising from that ground I see, In rains that number thirty-three, Everything you've grown in me. Nevermore a mere man called I, now that such love I've known. Come, my dear, onto the grass, Onto what thy sweet hand has sown. Love me as seems best to you, Ever down on sod and stone.
water well water
water well water like a groupie on the grass, caged candle kindling broken on singing songs that sirens throat water well water deep like a chicken hedgerow cover and coop for shelling out at farmhands while I am waiting on the eggs water well water whole in steeping tea that drags the liquid down to comfortable woman's hands rubbing my temples at length and charging nickels for the softest kisses
earthly treasures
within the earth slumber hearts and older things that warm the ground beside beds of onyx, beside the foundations of castles long fallen from clouds, and here we part with earthly treasures, buried like boxes of gold, or sea sand in bottles, or crosses worn for years about the neck, things we've loved and kept that speak in whispers through the strata. so we bury our machines, and post their graves with granite sentries that remind us, though we have loved them, to let them rest, and to watch instead the skies alive with the footfalls of our fathers.
the irony is I can't eat
we spread the feast of chokeloin and sicksteak, portions piled high to feed us and the witness that worships the rise of our disaster.  the fly-like face smiles as daylight rolls down through windows to shine upon the buttered hands we hold out toward our bitter-basted banquet.  the sun dances in our wine, a drab bouquet climbing into nostrils and setting the stage for the flavor of the coming plague. the wine first we hammer down, groaning into glasses as the filth finds tired bellies; so much easier to swallow than to love.  the meat is dark and beautiful, cut like coal shallows in the marbled guts o
one of many mantras
the whiskey whispers amidst indiscriminate music, a comfortable spot in the house where warm waters trickle down to trap the trembling of temples. all the good things scream your name, lucid and dreamless things the good Lord forgot, but there are whispers in misdeeds, in places shady with the weight of rot that overhangs all our misery. feed the might of this friction, the heedless hill on which indecision stands in the sun of suicide, basking and basking and basking.  I'd beat down the lie with song, but my vines grow voiceless, the garden gone to growls and overgrowth.  I'd shout the lie into dark holes in the ground and cover
the progress of the experiment
carnal intrinsicality dances with bourbon slickness down this tilted gooseflesh, gardens of grotesquerie overgrown with bullets and bonfires. cattle comment upon the backlash of this commission, a squarish prison to leave the people amused and perfunctory.  no sense can be made of the magic that once sat here, of the past that blocked the path of dark incandescence before it threw the gates wide to smile as all the simple pleasures came inside. I'd kill the little gremlins, but I'd be alone with their designs, alone in filth to think my fill of sicknesses back to life, test tubes and half-eaten TV dinners stalking long
the pen falls to the ground in an agony of hard gravity. the clatter rises back to mind and ear and heart; it climbs through a brackish crash, wet and slippery, with copper rings that shatter the peace of honeyed tea and cigarettes. these mornings race with prayers, little myriad whimpers run through with muscle reflex. I stick the silver pin of begging in my veins and hope the drip lays me steady.  God listens, a new drug to hold back the old. my back and kidneys ache. I've swallowed too much ink, too much black tar run down the page, now too thick it sits in lungs like chocolate frogs on lily pads melting in su
A Bitter End to the World
of March again born
a rupture from beneath night terrors, out bursts noise and steel in a fountain shower pumped up in darkness. the veins move with pain exquisite, bulbs of life pushing through to beat the heart of long dead Lazarus. animated again in defiance of funerary decree, life exceeds the organic norm, a new heretical you in youth obscene. the drumming sounds again amid signals; hear life revived, love again pushed to the throat in song. another you erupts from her, bullets in the teeth, blood upon the skin, newborn and vital in the cosmic pool. challenge ills, conjure strength from the old catastrophes.  in love you are ren
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