of all I cannot see.
the saint that sucks it\'s poison from my spine
the tree that snakes it\'s finger to the fern;
two worlds as blind as blood
now heaven turns and burns the waters dry.
outside to in
soon crucifix sets free it\'s book
to live one sentence more.
with scallops head,
as bright as crawling glow worms in my skull
sings bright the sound of Sunday for a pound;
of all I cannot spend.
time alone with Ares deep in prayer
drifting merry widows spiders nest
where healing hands turn daffodil
march southbound on the petals of a plague.
inside to out
green man from head to lung.
hells hung and quartered moon
climbs weary up the flesh side of the sun.
drooling ice spits suns shine on an itch
questions not the swollen glands of menopause;
of all I cannot be.
so ends so shall begin this bitter feud.
me and them.
them and these
these healing hands of straw
with heaving gut in a half way house.
between the mother and the sum
I die alone.
my ghost gives up it\'s dead