2 Star Motel #4

Between the threads
of time and space,
where nothingness resides;

An empty catacomb of prayer.

The echoes
of a faceless
bride, transcribed.

An annihilation
of particles; seismic
shifts & an oracle’s
propaganda,
make me drift
in thought:

Where eyes are
clean with tears,
and folds in time
and space bring back
deceased memories.

Between the threads
of time and space,
where nothingness resides;

An empty catacomb of prayer.

The echoes
of a faceless
bride, transcribed.

An annihilation
of particles; seismic
shifts & an oracle’s
propaganda,
make me drift
in thought:

Where eyes are
clean with tears,
and folds in time
and space bring back
deceased memories.

2 Star Motel #3

Cracked sky bleeds
white lightning,
as I echo out
the devil’s hymn,

There are blasphemies
between breaths, and
somehow saving graces,

I will press on;
and I will
raise a tower
to the sun.

Cracked sky bleeds
white lightning,
as I echo out
the devil’s hymn,

There are blasphemies
between breaths, and
somehow saving graces,

I will press on;
and I will
raise a tower
to the sun.

2 Star Motel #2

In the absence
of my lobotomy,
I see strange devils.

Stoplights.
Tall grass & open fields

Through which sunshine fades.

My womb, my
opened tomb,
venting manifold
computations; enumer-
able & blind. Number
preceding death, preceding
misinterpretation.

I see the fool played in part,
by my unconscious & other.

In the absence
of my lobotomy,
I see strange devils.

Stoplights.
Tall grass & open fields

Through which sunshine fades.

My womb, my
opened tomb,
venting manifold
computations; enumer-
able & blind. Number
preceding death, preceding
misinterpretation.

I see the fool played in part,
by my unconscious & other.

2 Star Motel #1

When God performs the
ultimate pattern combination,
and all our stars forecasting
are fallen from the sky,

And we are death,
walking out among
our brethren,

Becoming isosceles strangers.

Nuclear holocaust mitigation,
apocalyptic triangulations,
no more quarantines.

But boundless in this surface-deep
sarcophagus, the starry sky
unfolds to quench our thirst

For the rose’s prick.

When God performs the
ultimate pattern combination,
and all our stars forecasting
are fallen from the sky,

And we are death,
walking out among
our brethren,

Becoming isosceles strangers.

Nuclear holocaust mitigation,
apocalyptic triangulations,
no more quarantines.

But boundless in this surface-deep
sarcophagus, the starry sky
unfolds to quench our thirst

For the rose’s prick.

Blasphemy #2

Fickle sawtoothed progression,
here for now; in admission of
a guilty substance abuse policy.

We tackle truths in our waking
hours; we believe in rebellious
matters. And when our hearts
are pounding out the vibration

Of last night’s longing,
the urge to synthesis &
prolonged excitation,
here in this diseased
pool of thoughts,

I carry all my dependencies.

Fickle sawtoothed progression,
here for now; in admission of
a guilty substance abuse policy.

We tackle truths in our waking
hours; we believe in rebellious
matters. And when our hearts
are pounding out the vibration

Of last night’s longing,
the urge to synthesis &
prolonged excitation,
here in this diseased
pool of thoughts,

I carry all my dependencies.

Blasphemy #1

Winter has
escaped her bonds,
and the suicide
of our pretense
begs the
difference; it was
lasting through
Saturday’s
admission.

You never
gave me
the chance
to speak
my mind,
so I took
my leave
and dreamed
a stationary
bike could
save me
from this
Hell.

Ducks and geese
aroused by
philosophical
complacency,
born of redundancy,
and given as
birthed matter.

Winter has
escaped her bonds,
and the suicide
of our pretense
begs the
difference; it was
lasting through
Saturday’s
admission.

You never
gave me
the chance
to speak
my mind,
so I took
my leave
and dreamed
a stationary
bike could
save me
from this
Hell.

Ducks and geese
aroused by
philosophical
complacency,
born of redundancy,
and given as
birthed matter.

Markov

Show me a SECRET;
hidden from
the innocence
I gave you,
we twins.

There is no sign of me;

A slow
conception of
my burning flesh,
hand over our sins;

So let Hell bloom,
and clear the oceans
of the debris,
let the water
boil with volcanic
sputum.

“I hope I hope
I hope we both die,”
needle in a haystack
of musical self-identity.

Show me a SECRET;
hidden from
the innocence
I gave you,
we twins.

There is no sign of me;

A slow
conception of
my burning flesh,
hand over our sins;

So let Hell bloom,
and clear the oceans
of the debris,
let the water
boil with volcanic
sputum.

“I hope I hope
I hope we both die,”
needle in a haystack
of musical self-identity.