Song Fist

paltry, sad and tiny
children, you who were the
TITANS all writ up in haze
so luciferaging

bleat a flower
to an ear

a flower
is in agony
for ev'ry year

lawns like bees for rivers
their crust of bodies is smooth
and it runs like a stone
in a lava

Roman veristics must imply
our pixels weigh up short;
for what commuter can carve
his own dear daddy's old head
out of soap on a rope
to escape the dread
of fuel costs?

Not to say there is no good
scarring, or laying down of pattern
in the gizzards of today, but
how much good grey skull gizzard is wasted
in the space of the reactive,
instead of tasting

what the templus of wisdom shows
like a whirlwind in the plain

morphology
and the speaking of images together
has wend its sway

a willow and a squid come together
to heft a heavy jewel
down into the green glow

where the cave mouth begins

Hexabranchus sanguineus

The Spanish Dancer

could be made of anything in language

old folks agons
tupperwares
throopies

we've seen weird fictions
channel living flesh

we've seen flesh emit
pulses

like photonic skeletons

scaffolds with hungry nodes

a fang has a fuzzball on its nose

Nous is the very surface of voirlitaelity

the monad is pavonine

fapu chimur ir roglu

a bridge of hummingbirds
whose heads are glass arachnid stamen

namaste esteeming everything totally
but suckered in a tunnel//