Tuche & Automaton

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Untitled

History gurgling in my chest,
a fever drawn exterior to
our desperate radiation dripping
total violence everywhere.

Infinite repetition moves our womb backwards,
more than enough for the fiery sitting next to
the last baked day.

An eye that ascends to heaven,
conforming to stone, into Being's ribs
wafting thought become as wry contusions
coralling inner wines suggestive of
audible lines of flaked decorum.

Pulling purple static towards this always-now,
a city, a void, copping lascivious feels of that evolving
micro bending the dry, white skulls of the civilized delusion.

An energy capable of forming your singular face,
form shining through prphetic walls that bleed brown.

In the service of the labia. Eternally sipping
ceramic juices as multiple nodes of mystery.

Birth. Breath. The pain of letting go,
of knowing that it all stops HERE,
in the compassion of a golden pocket-trumpet
pounding your soul into certainty smoking
the thermonuclear universe away
once and for all.

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