Untitled

Yeah, requiem, thoughtful
food for mind space, open
like coin slots,
pin drops
and assortments. Circles
in my drinking water
makes speaking lay
on gestured lip movements.

The Wait For My Time

I live in a wall, tangled with power
lines and electrical tape and
left over varnish
for my teeth to gleam
with no source of light.

I live in a wall and eat
sawdust from my vaporized
bones. I drink myself
drunk, for my skin ferments into
sale-rack wine.

I live in a wall, I speak to
no others but I hear all
sounds and interrupt all
phenomena with careful
indecision.

I live in a wall, where I
sleep like a pendulum.
Never choosing right or left,
but forward, if I could
if my wall was not in front.

I live in a wall, where no mouse is stirring
hiding my biological face from scientific analyses
for I fear,
that my wall does not exist.

Satellite Toaster Oven

The man in the box with swore teeth empties the bins of consumption in traces of delirium, psychosis, bewildered in black features, hollow structures, the howl from the hum of nuclear-powered Burger King sign.

Sea-shell beat the drums, pulls down the night sky, using telepathic strings attached by thin necks, swollen jugulars that fold over and keep in place my dream-states.

Detroit scars send silver stars, down streams and rivers of her cheek, buried in the center of a tear, rolls backwards down my spine.

The tightest fit I could imagine—white blood cells scream in metal-vocalizations, for milk stains on clammy palms, blood spots that dance in the microstructures of liquids.

Marijuana smoke fights back, hurls paint and assorted buttons, emptying the fill, which reaches and spills over. Bubbles on my tongue pulse in coordinated pops, releasing nitroglycerin and light reflections.