Mote View

as it will leak within the pulse, the
window of the Prick of Conscience,
Lord of the Gladiators, the helmet
head a printer, then

the object is one
as it bursts out
from the stomach
of a sea monster

massive disk hands
they shed and replenished

the island pies
which incubated
formidable elastic heads

and the glow
of speech about
the cuff

too dry moves
the doll of cannons
as it slumbers
its sway to Anhalt

greeting their weird armies
on the shore
they could not believe
we were black holes
and semi-human contours

all blackness
a single tone

immunilodeon

all color
a printing
ocean
thinking

nothing will conform
to any sense given

take

they splay out tines
the light intending
batwings, fingers
term-tubing
opaque lanterns
sweating
visibly

ketoid and keloid
its limb-smoked
brandishings