Joker and a Royal Flush

Ghosts for a season subdue
The tender parts of you,
Sheltering storm clouds with a kiss,
And the diabolic perimeter;

Swirls the sunset,
Bleeds in the bath,
Breaking bones;
Casting stones,

And an irate, Catholic priest
Forces subjugation, retaliatory
An omniscient star,
Falling from heaven;

Cast into a sea of poverty,
Collecting the dust of its inheritance;
Chasing after its own tail.


Bathed in Oil

Music box clock work,
Spinning the sounds around,
In mechanical dance;

Spewing the secrets of the universe.

Once made of molten metals,
Now cold hard steel,
Copper coil,
Leaden barbs;

Thick sprockets,
He who has the key to make it sing;
Spins it into life eternal,
And doles out measures of its music,
Into the crags and crevices of time.

Wherever The Voice issues,
Muddied men rise up from their graves;
To praise
The maker of the Clockwork Bird.


The foundation; my Rock
And the sediments of decay,
Burial grounds of the dead
Where I lay next to you.

Speaking into worms
And flies;


The arms that once held you
Shattered bone,
We rot together.

Here beneath the heavy soil,
Waiting patiently.

Pursuing the past in endless dreams,
As if desire could awaken the beast;
Growing colder with a half life,
No longer able;
To breathe.

In Close Proximity

Droves of cotton pickers,
Marching through fields of snow,
Dressed in Summer clothes;

Fueling the fires of Mount Rushmore,

Daring each other to leap
To their death.

In a catatonic world,
Whose insurmountable pain
Exists for freshly minted coins;
The dew which rises
With the absence of the Son.


Heliocentric Capernaum,
Resistance in the coils;
As ovulation fuels the eccentricity
And we beget divinity.

Oil in the lamps divided
By simplicities and stated facts,
A recognition of demolition,
Gutting the transparency of evolution.

Herod’s underpinning,
Replacing capitalist coin
With unknown thunder.

My mute insistence
Projected on a plane of thought
Not begot;

Neither the antithesis of sound,
Has in its trumpet
Resounding clause
Of knighted passage.

Concubines of Venezuela

The ocean winds,
As they blast across the shore
Where we lie,
Soaking up the sun;

Amidst the cacophony
Of a thousand floundering fish,
All salted by the sea.

Love comes to me in waves,
Orgasmic entities feeding off
Seagull droppings,

There is no lost beatitude here,
Among the ceaseless crashing;
Simply cluttered beaches
Breasts exposed to heaven,

And a long monotonous simplex
Of screaming saints impaled on spikes,
As the ships of Satan’s seamen
Sail off towards Newfoundland.