The Next Star

Riding in an old car
Out across the plain
On the edge of forever.
Can't feel pain.
Underneath a white sky
Fingers circle the mouth
Like vultures to the dead.

"Our bodies have already changed,"
She said.
She said,
As she brushed the ash from her hair.
She said,
"Our bodies are already dying,
And you'll find
That the darkness at the edges
Will overtake us in the end."
She said,
"We will travel,
Hurry on
To the next star."

Toward the Glowing Brain

And the children
Eat the flowers
From the mountain
Their eyes turned inward
Toward the glowing brain.

And the spiders
Dancing lightly
Over their skeins
Immortalize madness
From the throats of starving women.
Extend their translucent strands
Tied to the yellow ochre clouds
Shrouding the wastelands in shadows.

The pharaohs are coming
Riding wild dogs
Spitting and foaming
Through the misty gloaming.

100,000 Years Ago

He lulled us all to sleep with strange tomato shaped objects and as we slept we dreamed of circles set inside one another, edges teased edges, vibrated in extreme proximity. The interstices bubbled energetically as white arms curled out with teeth for fingernails set in trembling hands and clutched at our soft throats.
I can see your heartbeat through your skin. It is a conduit. The blue tinged surface moves rhythmically under the teeth as they attempt to penetrate, rend and tear. And now your esophagus moves, expanding slightly, and climbs out of your mouth like a gray worm, sightless, questing for the fingers tipped with teeth at the base of your neck. Golden ochre bile dribbles out thickly and onto the bony wrist. It withers, fingers a spasmodic blur as ribbons of flesh spiral underneath its teeth. As it thrashes away, beneath you, your head bobs to the side, black hair obscures your sides, and your esophagus falls out of your mouth into your lap. Your hand, claw like, grips it, and I wake up under your altar, under your throne, curled into myself, basking in your exotic suicide.