our universe is nice in its hair breath softness
challenging air brained logic in a desolate sodium wilderness
like a mustard dungeon I sit with a brick braced under the pit of my arm
draining my ego mechanically like a metallic doll
singing with burnt tonsils a singed solo to delight
the mute mouths that smile
and letting go of the string while with a depressive’s disgust a black balloon escapes the metropolis
of months through a coagulated hole in the sky and the clamoring pedants repel the rushing wave of pregnant myth conveyed by men bathed
their syrup of prosaic prattle flooding with filth, though still languid and still, awakens a comatose aestheticism
in the mongol weeping bitterly
galvanizing the audience in fitful pleasure
contaminating the animated pipers wearing diapers and Brits with the shits

a sound signal from above sends headless helicopter pilot’s wives running for their lives
lapping up pastoral landscapes like pale milk
and undoing knots in a siren of silk

the reader is put to task
when there is no face behind the mask

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