Bidden, striking, the distance
between tine and tine
rings out the pale nightmare
singing softly in the grass

Standing there are
the mancers on the hill
swaying beshadowed by the cypress

and taking down the stars
swallow the sky and waiting
in the gaze of a pale nightmare

hours of the soul turned
to utterdark delight
watch my hands blossom
like boneflowers pushing through
the shredded sepals of flesh
in mathematical percision
thrust through the metal spokes
of this tale's loom
brings grinding to a halt





I snatch from it
one hundred and five keys
(the carbon ribbons
swirl about my shattered fingers)
and unlock the wire cages
of my torso to free sealed imagery
cryptic and subtle enigma machines
and memories in russia
a cold and bleak metropolis
silk tendons and preserved flesh
that chilling iron mask
the red bishop hanging from a tree
before everything turned to ash

from the sky
acid rains
upon the ground
and sear away the pavement
a hand presses inside
and turns on the street lights
just to make sure
I'm still alone
and no one follows

there's just a single
willow tree twisting
with the wind
in a garden of rot

it is august and
june still hasn't caught up

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