there's a whiteout

owl releasing respiration

on a shrinking window.

so it's wingspan can

overspread.

seminal stars in its

digestive system.

there's an irresponsiveness

that gets turned on at

first black.

still the features that show

up are distinct.

an entire entity leans in.

withdrawing the ashen bathwater

of Shiva...who knows when

to slather it on.

though he's cleanly extracted.

draining the sounds contained in

broken water.

post, post, post scriptum...

Escher etchings of a raven

motioning its only pair of wings.

turned out at last black.

when picking

meets

an unfurled

petal,

fingers unhand

themselves.

in such a way--

that a mutual

scent

remains with

every petal

come winter.

over winter.

fruits bruise

in the musculature

of a stallion.

plum-purple beating

the heart of a night.

already outrun.

taken by its own

outline.

somewhere...

going.

movements left...

penetrating.

Cerberus' tri-lapsing time,
wholly materializes at the everchanging
gate of hell's undisclosed location.
three-headed hound: one head looks backward,
one head looks downward, one head looks forward.
watchful as the white candles with black flames.
his constant chain reaction of biting mouthfuls
from a disassociated body--swept with unanimous
agonies.
then viciously going at his faces & necks.
all fours in a multidirectional trounce for potential
escapees.
there's a stench so piercingly foul that it can only be
registered between retches--yet Cerberus' six
nostrils relish it.
are adept at deciphering it from the condemned
that attempt to creep.
the electrically gruff boom of his bark staying their
torn feet.

led lights glaze

thru their city's fixity.

Ganesha's tree trunk

flexing a limb, rarified

birds leaking out of:

feather/color/paradiso.

a light going out with its

pinprick.

the fell hose of a gale,

Ganesha's trunk spraying

at Shiva.

strips of bark--overrunning

persistent droplets at

their side.

while set for a dry hanging.
'

there are no precursory glances

when powder-puffs of lime are

thrown against an expired wind.

scolded for the fifth time--for not

vowing ether.

as matrimonial frills wrap around

solved bones.

undivided as houses sealed shut,

where karma ensures everyone has

dinner together.

an unclassified angel

dreams of wake-up...

just to uphold a sledgehammer

of clouds.

she couples with that sound,

to sing aloud.

in twune.

without a sound check.

no Sun--

no Moon--

simply a cave.

holed up, and there.

just there, right there.

unseeable.

both of the wings of

nothingness torn apart

in flight.

stupendous magic--

Nirvana keeps its Word.

its Word will never go

extinct in any wilderness.

there's a black bar glister--

that strikes between the

flippant poles, of this steady

rate of rain.

while bone dry with a rain that

has letup its old footage, a present

nonevent.

an encinctured iris shot.

a witch's death mask turned up on the black
market--rumored to have shrunk herself, leaving
behind a thumb size cast.
ending up on the living room wall of an elaborately
detailed dollhouse, conjuring the whole transaction.
remanifesting like rot's backhand--her nose touching
her crutched chin, which conceals a sunken mouth
frittering away two teeth.
she pokes around the dollhouse with her *******
bouncing off her knees, as phlegmy laughter trickles
***** down bamboo stalk legs.
her *** is a wrinkly retraction, covered by strands of
white hair that appear fished-out of her skull.
she's just fertilizer patch, wet & wild about hell playing
dollhouse--& how wearing the death mask seems to
say something about her, even while pretending.
she must leave a few telling traces, so she peels off nursery
wallpaper--with leafy apples between slow to learn letters.
throws a black *** on a fireplace, making its flames shoot
up & fall like a timed fountainhead--caressing it as an
expectant mother would, the very joy of a spellbook.
until her fingers blister, and their swirlingly green prints
can be deflated--worshipping how dead skin clings to life.
then she slips into a plastic mirror & begins squeezing
blackheads from her overarching beak, until wormy ****
sprouts from the mirror.
flicked off into a limnal-drab sink, then climbs out of the
mirror & wills all her hair to shed.
exiting into the greater house to observe the man who
purchased her death mask sleep.

there's a desolation

that's lost on place--

a distinct body of being

consumed by nonbeing.

the excised Heart of a

mirror.

a thinning air that draws lines

of transparency.

where if one's existence

is reflected--they will never

be seen or heard from again.

emotions drift away

as broken continents...

seedling stars buried

in their soil.

that will rise as the

puppetry of deities.

the dark room genus

of a flower developes....

within planes of

vases.

whose stems unearth

a shattering too fine

for the boundaries of

a photo.

so a dark room may be

the genus of another

flower--all together.

a compendium of

extinction.

blooming.

as horizontal lines are lowered

to disappearance across shores.

similarly an inbuilt distance of

return keeps ones guiding star

in its over-world chamber.

regenerating something more

complete than memory--which

is what life recalls.

death the twinkle in its eye--being

overcome by the throbs of its colorful

attractions.

a vermillion serpent

with white smoke wings

and light yellow eyes,

slides off a stone cloud.

a fainting phantasma of

unheld height, meets a

stream of milk precisely its

length and width.

issuing midpoint between the

sky-ground.

knocks in its eyes, and

dislodges its jaws for an aeonic

drink.

a beast growing

thorns from his bones,

depetaling a rose-mind.

picking up on the scent

of rot.

lets out a muffled cry,

hidden among the latest

twist of crooked trees.

a curved stony enclosure whose seawall gives
way to hulking cliffs--with chiseled ramparts
akin to bottom cuspids.
standing before foldable reflections--aside from
the accelerating interpolation of sea-clouds, prone
to negatives.
the guiding intelligence of a flood cupped by an
isle that is unmet with a return.
its interior of entryways are desolate modulators
of tides.
as the two main entrances to the isle set stone apart,
the first as ruggedly cut indicators--the second as
altar-immaculatus blocks.
its baselevel of algae--fed by browning runoffs of rain,
along cracks filled with ivy.
leading into cypress trees expecting late visitors, with
an adamance that gives an odd calm to the out-of-place.
though they unnaturally crowd & surpass their enclosure,
with a tingle of wildflowers anticipating them.
making a point of something, already at its most advanced
stage--withholding a shade solid enough not to have been
under a burning phos.
come the skewed vision of a boat, progressing in the way
of water.
the sea peering at the back of the void's head, as it's shone
upon.
the forward tilt of a boatman's oared tension--stiffly even
keel, with enough momentum to float to the isle.
the boat becomes sensationless...the figure in the white
shroud knows nothing else but what is about to transpire.      
as if Lazarus dazedly brought to his feet, remaining there
for all the world.
the only thing that the cypress trees can see, as take into
their shade the coffin.