Allows for the smolder to linger

Silhouette of an old friend.

The face of a bird glides, 

And the air has become soft

I have known this moment in a dream.

Man walks on the platform

I will be shot and strangled

He dusts off my shoulder for me.

Cat goes to the bathroom

His box is in the corner

He shits in the tub.

Did you eat my chocolate?

No, I mumble.

I mumble.

I want the dust

of a beach —

its truths and transgressions —

its aged

soles I seek — calloused —

the asphalt 

of an anagram — disordered 

earth and its disciples 

sleep-walking—waking—

In labor rooms

umbraged—crawling out my

the hole—whole—

of the eclipse is

not blockage

of the sun

but rather

as the nets are cast

and sweep.

pours into the cave that nature has bored me

and as all the leaves of all the trees begin to vibrate

and as the hymn of the forest becomes heard

I am born.

Out, out, brief carcass.

Shriveled, wet, cold.

Pulsating.

The heartbeat of the earth

swells my wings with resin 

and I am granted flight by the moon

engorging slowly the sky itself.

The man begins to laugh

He laughs

He laughs

As sickly tar pours out from his craters

and as all my kin become cannibals to their kind

I am chased into the valley of the Den Emperor himself

Who’s eyes face backwards into bone

Who’s mandibles feast on tainted blood and fury

Who’s gullet parades seas of the victims of armageddon

Who’s wretched breath breathes incantation into the night.

How do I escape from those who find their homes in miserable shells

whom all turn after me

calling my name?

Beady eyes can never see all.

Hark!

Hark!

I was not this thing before!

One month’s time I have spent in solitude!

And in it I have learned it is not always that a shadow is unalive, 

that one dare not call a creature of the night a creature to begin,

for the guttural, primordial reverberations they howl hardly make them creatures at all.

The sounds of darkness do not discriminate upon this land,

and mixed with wind, I have felt its sweeping vacuum all too much,

for in it, is not a lull that brings a young one to sleep,

but an old relic

that siphons all and any breath

and in its roar

raises the dust of centuries

falling right in front of me.

Awaken, power of vision!

Become he who has laid the catalyst of creation.

The one who has seeped into himself.

Become he who lies in the holes of hollow willow trees.

Emerge, beast of darkness.

All becomes taken,

Brilliantly.

But what of the children?

And as little streams of water began to flow from the gaps in the bomb's weld
I realized it had begun to cry
I gave it a look of disbelief
as I had never been cried to by a bomb before
and then it spoke,
"I am just as lonely as you"
But what of the children?

Am 9 millimeter parabellum, was

slugged in

a dream, slow creaking door through the hallway

Am pierced young child, baby bird

Was breath, erasure

Am animalism, Bloody Mary and denim 

hat spurs and concho

Am organ and harmonica sonata

bad orchestra

Was train, transgression, once upon a time a bed 

too large, dimly lit room

Was death rattle, quasi morto 

Am reanimation

Am dance moves you can’t show your daughter, bad motherfucker 
wallet, crumpled two dollar bill

Human epitaph, god 
of gods, Jupiter 

Used to be sweeping erasing hand

Still furious bumfuck

He is a rambunctious sort, ain’t he?