I dödens stad är kärleken ett trädets industri.

Factory girls kissing factory boys, crumbling.

Lot’s wife said, “Have you no compunction?” as he mixed her into his drink.

Lost are the boys among the gravestones.

Lolita cracks in the pavement and factory girls.

Humbert’s bursting mailbox, letters helter

“Skelter,” she wrote, put the pen down. “I got blisters on my fingers,” she said.

The giants stretch their stony toes to the sky.

Gnarling, snarling, leaping on great sleeping creatures

tucked in human skin blankeys, they slumber-kick sweetly.

I woke up and exited; my muscles were exposed.

He entered: tiny ripple of a tendon.

SNAP: no, just imagine, lurking loss

Finger floats down nylon, plucks accoustics, la la

land of atrophies and sing-song promises: the cellist has visited his prostitute

in blue seas sounds of a thousand flutes.

It’s true, she’s tic-tacked together with ho-hum satellites.

Stepford cherry pies and red-checked blankets.  Four corpses inside!

The screen went blank, and she said “It’s sick what they do for shock value.” His hand was still on her thigh.

White sky binds the cross to the clouds

Renga Renga Renga Renga in the dutch of the slurp and gurgle

bird’s blood in the community chalice; deja-vu voodoo.  I’ve been here before.

Ripped pillows, and across wide asphalt, feathers spreading without sound

of mind and body, she writes her testament.

Pow wha pow pow pow, wha pa pa pow who will ever

“Those punks,” wheezed #42, “rings all up and down their ears.”

I saw: cul-de-sacs, church basements and no stars. I hear only reiterated doorbells.

“Ass-in-a-bag!” The butcher declared

and I’m late for the chalice of curls

Gwen and Arty and Lance snuggled up tight, pigs in a blanket.

Strong of arm and of pallid complexion. He stepped down from the pulpit.

As they crumble, stones ascend.

Ozzy eats twelve bats a week, chomp chomp, and broken glass is why I’m vegetarian.

I write dirty words on the wall

her in, shoot her, and hang her, and sew her up, pickle her.

Dr. Lermontov explained: “we must have food for after the war.”

We foraged, we could only find mushrooms with spotty caps but Jo said he was hungry so—

We climbed up on the pile of shit and saw it

into pieces tumbling. The grasses on the hill bow and slowly rise again.

My friend lays down the greasy steel and turns toward Mecca.

At sunrise, Paul Revere peels off his socks and collapses into stardom.

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