The One who made this Earth
llooks upon my devices with a flavorful derision.
A reaction I perceived to be fear,
which could very well be an illusion
just like the remainder of all physical truths.
The structure itself is impressive in it's design,
but lacks any real stability or constant.
And so it falls into a domino chain that spans from the bitter end of time,
to the temptress folds of a deep, warm nothing
I will not fall pray to such abstractions.
I shall jump through this shrinking circle
this agent of death and disorder
that drags me from agonal season to fleeting episode, to second, and second, in a single file line,
and leave this petty game.
The Arsenic Sunset
Eden now knows what it meant
When corruption took flesh as a
Serpent—
For all things alien
Narrow to a tendril
A twist of black sap
A rune of bloody syrup against tissue-paper tides
Winking crudely among the starved sluggish currents
Of emerald and sapphire
Like a clay-red foaming artery.
A root seeking an oasis not yet tainted
Among jeweled whitecaps and glassy heat.
Eden now knows what it meant
When the urge to ruin something
Stole form as an apple
That could be devoured into
A constellation of seeds withered on your palm;
For the ruin of anything has a stiff-grained pleasure to it—
Not much separates a grimace and a smile.
The brackish wave
And black-slick shore
Ache—
With want, with memory
For the reign of a firmament not yet singed with sulfur breath
And a sky yet unbound by the rainbow venoms
That richen the arsenic sunset.
The thrum of myriad hearts
Sounds the confusion
And the agonal forward trudge
Of a world unfertile
Bathed in alien minerals, and haunted by
The loss of its oceans’ poetry.
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