Heavy Eyes (White Dwarf Stars)

Lined with lead,
When let,
Loose to devices,
Your eyes,
Your left,
And your right,
Drill loneliness,
Through everything,
Stare down,
To the ground,
And to the world,
Through the core,
Through the mantel,
And magma,
Your exile,
A density,
Of a thousand moons,
An effigy,
To yourself,
Even alone,
Nothing is neutral,
As you fall through the other side of the world,

And into space.


Time Catches Its Reflection

It came into me,
Like a cannibal,
And left me,
In a coma,
As I fell,
In circles,
Prodded by ticks,
And tocked by every prick,
Laying each sick second,
Out across epochs,
Drawn raw,
And spread red,
Time even hates itself,
Hates itself to death.

I Poet or Whore

You have always been part of this,
Immaculately lush to military measure,
And wrapped in opiates,
I arrive medicated,
Tapped me to blankness,
A vacuum of you,
Watching me,
Until I am dry again,
Defining my sanity,
Lay waste my armor,
You stab and shoot me,
I stand rabid,
Aching down to subtle body,
Tasting time,
And forced to breathe,
Just moments,
To unfold into the possible,
Proof of the little I offer this world,
Straining human evolution,
And closing the windows of time,
My new poems,
To my own throat,
A new weapon,
Your arsenal,
Bloated closets,
Of my maps and pages.

[Repurposed poetry/ a collaboration with Mr. Jimpers]


Captain's Prerogative

Cold suns,
Run aground,
Corona integrities,
By invaders,
Of aggressive anomalies,
And enemy torpedoes,
All hands,
Abandon ship,
Life pods,
And meteorites,
Binary pulsars,
And rescue beacons,
Swept away,
Life support failure,
Gasping for oxygen lines,
Seeking energy signatures,
Beneath slip streams,
And neutrino currents,
For materialization,
Locked in phase shift,
As schools of hungry singularities,
Ravage the survivors,
The captain and first mate,
The ship's cook,
Three blind, civilian passengers,
And an albino, chimpanzee test subject,
A raft,
The only remnants,
And wash ashore,
In a galaxy,
Of gorged gravity wells,
...all is lost...
...all is lost...
...all is lost...


A Circle in the Snow

Serving my Mother,
The holy herder of goats,
The master of  these wastelands,
Combing her red, matted hair,
Of vines and moss,
In a tundra bed,
A sighing sanctuary,
Of still green leaves,
Sleeping with the millipedes,
The hibernating cicadas,
And the earwigs,
Wrapped tightly,
In Jesus's scaly, shed skin
Her nightstand,
Host to mosquito larvae,
And the mercy of a thousand Christs,
By the dull prongs of a polar sun,
A wandering city of caribou,
Also stop to sleep,
Pouring out as hot breath,
Speaking with the cold air,
Conversations about the melting permafrost,

And the end of the world.


My night,
Tear yours,
To ripped,
Peace processes,
Is ours,
Shock troops,
And Murder units,
Of failed compassion,
By day,
You are nothing,
But bandaged,
Dead wars,
And compromise,
Your borders,
In sorrow,
Your heart,
All treaties and vows,
An infidel,
To traitors.

(un)/CLEAN: (ing)

And clean:(ing)
To cement,
Cleanse contamination,
Sprits so foul,
Blood clots and black bile,
Washed away,
By melting snow,
Twenty seven Gods at twilight,
Magick is clean,
I am now clean,
But not awake.