New Poem #27

Regurgitating childselves emboweled Chronically.

New Poem #26

A Masonic pyramid spouting a rainbow, a bloodshot all-seeing eye. Deathly phallus, economy-sustaining public work. All toked up, hotboxing pharoic corpses, beacons of otherworldliness prismatically distributed. An investment, its mind-searing returns. I saw this scarpainted somewhereabouts on my body. Psychedelic little doodle, memento of some secreting society, having stolen me while I slept, branded me over a fine joint meeting of the high priests and priestesses and priestessesses.

New Poem #25

The noonday demon breading brooding. Scoffing, camped out on the rings of Saturn, snickering. We shake our fists and pop our pills. We try to explain. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? No faith in explanation. No faith in faith. No heartfelt words, only intellectual gambits. What we really need is an umbilical cord of infinite length, connecting us to everyone and everything. That's what we really need.

New Poem #24

Lacrimonious diminuendous. Curtains close. Off to merriment! Step up now, into the carriage, cane at his side. What a show, what a show, oh but yes, wasn’t it just divine? Naturally, the finest falling of woman ever committed to the stage. Those micro-waves, Un Di Felice Eterea, shall bounce around the hall ‘til the end of time, I assure you. But our hero, what’s on his mind? Champagne unfluted, cravat well-tied, fingernails immaculate as the Virgin herself; the preoccupation reigns, the dance lingers lingeringly, of the bull-men, the bull-headed men, a bunch of latter-day Minotaurs. The issue? Self-recognition. Not consciously, beneathingly. Handful of issue, in the bath, then approaches the looking-glass critically, and for a moment it is as if…This is a morbid tale, and the faint-of-heart may wish to look away as the deed is done. Curtains open. Grotesquerie worthy of the Great Clown himself.

New Poem #23

A prehistory: library-goer, just fine, free day, his self-worthying idea of leisure, when: it comes like a spell, spoken elsewhere, afflicting him. Rendering him cloudlike, expansive, and oh, the books! Voluminously oppressive waiting speakers of versions, versions, versions, all things subheliotic. Hideously reductive patient knowers of knowledge, it’s become a morgue, that smell which he once loved, and now down he goes, carpet, a whole faceful. Nose flared out, flattened, returning stale breath like a charitable amnesiac, all is distant, unmeaning. For all he knows, the shelves have collapsed upon him, for all he knows, he is a book.

New Poem #22

Speaks a devotional, whittles down the offshooting passing distractions. Or doesn’t. Sailers sail, their bark dead and floating, warped by commerce-promises, but at least. Maybe. Intervening fate, lurking inscrutably, nonexistingly. Stumbles from town to town, looking in windows, stealing space with his unwanted gaze, his fantastical mind like a vampire, requiring invitation. Hungry. Guilty.

New Poem #21 (first magic poem)

There were three kingdoms, suchly, three royal wizards, working away. The object being a transdimensional rift, or maybe that’s not what it was at all, some deranged pursuit that nevertheless ultimately (it was commonly agreed) threatened to consume all and everyone. The question then becoming, what the nature of that consumption would be? For were it a great joining, that would be rather nice, wouldn’t it? Thus the faithful, the everwaiting, expediting wizardlovers. For were it a great sundering, an obliteration, well, not so nice. Thus the Luddites, I mean, the nonbelievers...the infidels? The rest of the story is really nothing special; suffice it to say, all rifts being achieved in unison, three consuming sorts spilled out, ate up the kingdoms, ate up each other and, well, who am I to say what that was like?