to the dead lands where the wombs woe where writhes and ripens in blackest spring the star of being whose light our thoughts like worms from corpses rotting glow

lantern guts hatch we thresh them against our hands like small animals and bleed their black acids into our hearts

sounds that slip shapeless eyes whose orbital lights convulse in resonance and truss hearts in frosts of flesh

half asleep hypaethral warmth in black glass blown from bright clouds there are beetles that shatter the under sky

there is a dog bed in belarus covered in fleece from the orphan's head

when what's once replete recedes silage shrinks and sinks to ash

the larynx glows a lamp-like crystal coronary tentacles of voice a motion for the cloture

bleed eidolons reckless from vapors of veins wire hand molds wisdoms to flesh

in anguiform ligatures mummified flames wore the corselet of Mehen and gave birth to the day

your face is a broken cup spilling machines into your hands

i am holding in all of my heart like a soft milk / the porcelain that fell like a guillotine

twitches intoned by the sky grays like blood in the water ooze when they're belly up

how static crumbles from the branches the fluids churning in these vessels glass & scattered

dawn the nepheloid mantle of the cortical homunculus and savagely demand reifications in intracellular altars of condemned ideological designs

carillons of windows darken in coventry the feathers expunged from their souls conjure some measure of neutrality from the vermiform spark of your layered strings

a voice shakes free from the talons of the wind is this where the ground opened up but feel your skin burst with the laughters of life bathed in damasks of molecular choreography lift your hand to your eyes