in dust

in dust,

in glass u did not immediately see the glass, and in sickness ballet drop box/ the silence from you was deafening, disfigurement, i let him kiss my scars, and left left it forever and ever and ever like the thrills and chills of the tenderloin and in dust/

in dust, in veins gone purple as as a puppet, these were all signs of tenderloin cement and the tenderloin today is a cunt red anal rose of revenue and a sacrament i suppose of a sacrament/ steep in the intending the voice itself goes tongues under bombs with helter skelter, an idiot chant designed to bring shelter, we call it safe, but that makes no sense to require helterskelter in symbolisms, the language of the wind, his holes his dust/

his i suppose it into the language world war two’s pinocchio’s sticks and leaves from the books of ashes, burned documents/ it could not be undone any of it, a swarming of the nights, and the lights and those mescaline delights, walking around on geary, turning purple tricks at the sir francis drake, in ramada inn ramada, in, so in the horses galloping, your balls and all the sea vaults cutting through the rock/ the american west of wounded distance/ in dust, in ice, in some vile response, in human existence/ exceeds your seed inside like brimstone insistence/ why are we here, ablaze with all the lunatics in a diagonal cage/ amazed over anything, it can all go down into so much rigid role, tight as a country bumpkin, like a big black hole/