midway through velvet incarceration

The boyish facade of that dynastic king

promises a pyramid of facsimile amusement,

a lame gold mask that falsely tames the rural mile,

and royally tenders the shrieking greens of spring.

What is drawn from the sapphire clouds

is also condensed in a spooky window:

a solo pine cone alone is spared in view

atop the hallowed spokes of spiral rubber.

Sycophantic circus freaks shuffle at last,

worshiping the retro karaoke of pecking divas,

at last the howls of where and squeals of when

are burst from the belly of a bulging tomb:

welcome to the threshold of banality.

Spun in a syrupy four part stigmata

odd sockets of the savior's sugary skull

have ceased to be a harmony that soothes.

Little Tina's sweet shoppe is barely stocked,

but emotions run high when the carny's in town.

Isn't it necromantic?

From a blossom born of yellow thrusts

the thought I thought half-dead dissipates

into a moon half-shrouded in tissue clouds:

from a bronzed and milky bosom,

starved in common of rare earths,

I was in vitro once-

but it seemed to barely last.

There was a fecund goddess there

coaxing dybbuks through the maze.

out of body out of

A battered staircase leads to must,

a bookcase glimmers in lunar dust-

bathed by piercing cratered swoons

a parade of pears in yellowed lace

pins your retina to a waxing place,

the red rust redolence of indolent musk

spells with brief sleep the patina of moons:

every insight an insight

into the futility of insights.

In that lumina of nocturnal shade

you were the lizard on the arid shale,

shorn of scales on the dizzy down.

You thought it was astral to neatly creep

in parallel to the course of spooky stars:

pointing at Polaris, you were misinformed.

It's not that is was evil,

it's just that it was pointless.

Four months of perfect aridity

there in the polished mirror-

you still do not taste your gods,

here in the breathing desert.